


Fractional

by currently_in_my_mind_palace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Bed-Wetting, Caring John, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Developing Relationship, Dog - Freeform, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mind Palace, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD Sherlock, Physical Therapy, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Slow Build, Therapy, Therapy Dog, They all need hugs, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-17 16:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5878240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/currently_in_my_mind_palace/pseuds/currently_in_my_mind_palace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his little brother is caught in Serbia, Mycroft rushes to his aid. But he comes late. Very late. Too late? Sherlock doesn't seem to be himself anymore after his rescue. Mycroft finally turns to the only person who could fetch him back - John Watson. But John is broken too. The events of the past changed everything. And the future seems to be a battle they can't win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

John Watson was about to break.

He knew it.

He knew it the moment he sank to the ground in a dark alley, holding a half-empty bottle of scotch loosely in his right hand.  
He knew it when he vomited grossly in the dirty waste mountain before him, observed by a skinny stray cat, which stared down at him from the lid of a garbage can.  
He knew it when he curled up, sobbing and trembling, while the alcohol from the open bottle slowly spilled into the gutter.

_What has become of me?_

There was no answer.  
Of course.

The cat stared at him for another moment, and disappeared into the darkness with a jump.

John looked up at the night sky.  
No stars.  
Concealed by clouds and the smog of the city.

Eventually, he dragged himself home, to the small apartment he had rented for himself, far away from Baker Street.

Far away from the voice which still sometimes spoke to him in his head.

His voice.  
Sherlock’s voice.

Still.  
After nearly two years.

John no longer answered Lestrade's concerned messages.  
Not, since he had given way, and had come to a crime scene to examine a corpse.  
This had been some months ago in summer.  
As he bent over the body, Sherlock‘s voice suddenly roared loudly, louder than ever before.

_Oh come on John!_

_What a dull case ..._

_This cannot be more than a 3 on the scale. You deal with something like that? Really?_

_We could  be eating pasta together at Angelo’s._

_Or drinking tea in front of the fireplace._

_Or playing Cluedo._

_I could even play the violin for you, the piece which you like so much. The piece for which you close your eyes and you can relax._

_Come on, John! Let‘s go home…_

John had collapsed with a strangled groan almost  falling on top of the corpse. He pressed his hands against his head and had staggered off the crime scene. He had not paid attention to Lestrade's cries, and had almost fallen against a car and stumbled across the street under furious honking...

It was too much.

He was just a man, goddammit.

A man who had had to watch, as the man who had meant the world to him - Who had been his life, for God's sake. Let's face the truth. - had jumped to his death. Blood on asphalt.  
Open, empty eyes, which had been so lively before.  
No breath,  
no pulse.  
Nothing.

He was forced to visualize this moment in his mind again and again.  
Both in his dreams and during the day.  
Worse than any nightmare about his time in the army.

Much worse.

He was having panic attacks again but still refused to take the pills, which Ella had prescribed him.  
These pills did not help against this certain kind of pain…

Because there was something, something no one knew.

Something, John had entrusted to no one.

Something, hidden in his heart, which was slowly breaking apart.

He had been falling in love with Sherlock.  
Slowly,  
in the beginning with reluctance,  
however, steadily,  
particularly at the end.

He was the only one who knew.  
And now this knowledge was destroying him.

 _Why have you done this to me, Sherlock?,_ John Watson asked silently in the darkness, while he laid motionless on his bed in a far too large room.

_Why?_

_Why have you left me?_

_You could have had me maybe._

_You could have been loved._

_You could have lived._

_With me._

_You damn bastard …_

_Why have you left me behind?_

_Why?!_

*

Sherlock Holmes was about to break.

He knew it.

He knew it the moment a dirty finger touched his broken cheekbone, gently, nearly affectionately.  
He knew it when a warm breath hit his face – stinking of cigarettes and cheap alcohol.  
Familiar,  too familiar.

Just like the familiar gruff Serbian that haunted him in his dreams, during the few hours in which he was allowed to sleep, before the circle began once more.

“Have you changed your mind? I can continue very long this way, darling,”  
The voice breathed in his ear. This odious voice was the only one he had heard for days now.

“You only have to say it, a few words, and then I will stop. Then I will release you. Maybe it will even be painless. Who knows ... only a few words. Why. Are. You. Here? Tell me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling the stinking breath.  
He forced the words through his throat, which was rough and dry.

“Never… Get your filthy fingers off me …”

The voice chuckled quietly and the finger went through one of the cuts in his cheek.

It burned.

“Well ... fight on, resist further. I like to break the defiant ones – the proud ones. And I will break you. Sooner or later.”

“No. My brother will come and he will kill you,” Sherlock said with all the conviction he could still muster. “You shouldn’t underestimate him … It's dangerous to do so.”

The other man laughed again.

“Nobody will come. We are here completely alone. Exactly like the other days. I will continue, until nothing more is left of you, until you beg me to kill you and until you spit out everything, only for the pain to end … But it will not go that far if you tell me, what I want to know.”

"Never," Sherlock said once more, his eyes firmly closed. “Never …”

“As you wish. More fun for me.”

 _Be a machine, Sherlock …_ Mycroft's voice said in his head, cold and emotionless.

_A machine feels no pain … no fear, and no desperation._

_Be hard like stone. Stone doesn’t break …_

_Machine_!,  John’s voice shouted in his head, frustrated and disbelieving.

An echo of the past.

However, when the blows struck him once more, when old wounds burst and new ones were torn, Sherlock thought to himself that machines do not bleed.  
And stones do not bleed. And stones do not scream.  
But humans bleed. Humans scream.  
He was only human.  
And humans break.

Sometimes.

_Where are you Mycroft?_

_Where does the Eastwind remain?_

_It better hurry up._

_I do not know, how long I can hold on …_

*

“Where is he?” Mycroft asked in harsh Serbian, while he forced the young man before him up against a trunk and held a gun to his head.

His Back-up team surrounded him, all weapons directed on the Serbian, whom they had cornered.  
A member of the group which smuggled drugs for Moriarty and ordered murders in Serbia. Finally, a breakthrough in the search for Sherlock. It had dragged on far too long …  
As an answer to his question Mycroft received a malicious, knowing grin.

“Wouldn't you like to know, huh?”

“Where is he?” Mycroft barked once more and pressed the barrel of the gun more emphatically in the soft meat below the chin of the Serbian.

The grin became broader.  
“You won't get any information from me, you English bastard!”

Mycroft’s lips curled into a cheerless smile.

“I would not let come to this," He said coldly. “I have brought quite  a few other men to question small-criminal rats like you. I am a patient man …“

The smile of the Serbian broke when he looked into Mycroft’s hard eyes. He saw a dark promise there, a promise of pain leaving no doubt about the fact that Mycroft meant it completely seriously.

Moriarty’s nickname for Mycroft was well known in local areas.

 _Iceman_ … without feelings, without scruple.

The young man swallowed.  
“If I talk, will you let me go?“ He asked.

“Hardly. But you would save yourself an amount of incommodities," Mycroft answered dryly.

“He is with Branko … Under the old, closed weapon factory in Kosjerić,” The Serbian said without hesitation.

“How many men?”

“Maybe 20 …”

"Do they know who he is?"

"Yes, but they want to know why he is here. How he has found them...”

Mycroft nodded and lowered the gun from the neck of the Serbian.  
He was telling the truth.

"Hey," The Serbian said grinning. "Are the English prisons really as comfortable as everybody says?"

"I'll hand you over to the local authorities," Mycroft answered coldly, the aversion burnt like bile in his throat.  
The man disgusted him. They all disgusted him. This whole gang of criminals. They were primitive, uncivilised and corrupt.  
Without spine or solidarity even towards their own people.  
There was not even a spark of decency or honour in them. Which is why he concerned himself with Sherlock ...

“It was clever of you to talk,” Mycroft said coldly and the Serbian grinned again. This time it was a very spiteful grin.

"Anyway, you are already too late, English bastard," He spat at Mycroft’s  rigid face. “You should have heard him, how he screamed until his voice gave out…now he does not scream a lot, of course, he has no more strength for it, I think. But some days ago, oh, yes, he just screamed and screamed. Names. John, John over and over again. And the name of his brother who has not come to help him. He begged you to come, has begged you to save him, to stop the pain …”

With a furious scream Mycroft hit his gun against the temple of the Serbian, who slumped unconscious in his grip, the grin still illustrated on his dirty face.  
Mycroft lowered him to ground and watched his men carry him off.

He breathed hard.

He was cold.

He had goose bumps.

He hadn't lost control like that in a long time.

However, it had also been a long time since he had led an operation.

He did not like to be active in the field.

It was dirty, it was degrading, and far below his level.

However, he could not leave Sherlock’s rescue to anyone else.

Never in his life had he had to assist Sherlock with a mission. Sherlock had always got away with some scratches or bruises in the past.  
Had appeared in London sometime with a haughty grin on his face as if he were to say: See what I am able to do. See what I am capable of!

However, now it had been weeks since he had last received a sign from his brother.  
It had been frightening.

It had taken quite a while; for Mycroft to notice that something had to have gone wrong - before he had gotten a vague notion of where his brother had disappeared to and where he was  being held up – Sherlock had always covered his tracks very well. That was his special talent …

And now it was a curse.

Now Mycroft was filled with fear … For the first time.

 _You are too late_ … the words resounded in his head.

_Oh, Sherlock …_

_I will be there soon._

_Hold on._

Mycroft rose in the dark carriage in which the tied up Serbian lay now, and stared from the window at the snowy, scanty scenery that passed outside.  
His face was pulled into a fierce, determined look.

If he found Sherlock,  
and if he was injured,  
if he had just one scratch,  
then God have mercy with his kidnappers.

Because he himself would show no mercy.

*

Sherlock coughed and gasped for breath as he was dragged out of the water by his hair.  
The world around him had become blurred and blackness dotted his vision.  
He felt as detached from his body.  
This time they had waited long …  
They had held him down until he believed his lungs would burst.

"Talk," The usual voice said coldly.

"No," Sherlock gasped, and tried to remain conscious.

"Again," The Voice said flatly.

Once more his head was forced under water. Low-spirited and lungs burning once again, panic crept up his sides. The instinct to turn away; became stronger and stronger, his body rebelled like by itself, and tried to shake off the hands which held him down relentlessly.

Water everywhere ...

No air ...

Drowning ...

Then – air, blackness, the voice.

“Why are you here? How have you found us?”

“... Fuck ... you.”

“Again.”

…

How long has he been here?

Days?

Weeks?

Time played no role here …

Every day was the same.

Worried sleep,

painful reveille,

the voice,

the hands,

pain,

faint,

consciousness,

pain …

 

People break.

Sherlock broke when the hands hit deeper for the first time, over cuts and swells and broken bones - what remained of his consciousness made it clear to him of what was about to happen and that it was more than he could endure.

He broke when the hands moved over his hips and when he felt the usual hot breath, quicker as usual, on his chest.

“Stop!”

The hands paused, paused carefully.

“Yes pretty boy?” The voice asked expectantly, lurking, with a triumphant undertone.

“Please ... don’t …”

“You only need to talk…Talk, and I’ll stop.”

And Sherlock talked. The words erupted from him like bitter bile. He could not stop.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am  a Consulting Detective…Moriarty made me jump, otherwise he would have killed everyone close to me. I staged my death and he committed suicide. I went off to destroy his network. I killed Moran. I killed Tramontin in Italy. I put Silver behind bars and destroyed his drug cartel in Florida…I, I have…,” He fell silent, as a coughing fit shook him and cut off his airway.

“This was not bad at all - for the beginning,” said the voice nearly affectionately. “Even if you have only told me what I already knew...What the spider has told me. And now lie still …”

"No," Sherlock shouted in panic and tried to get away from the hands that held him down.  
“I talked, I ...“

And then everything suddenly happened all at once.

A shot rang through the room and the hands disappeared from him.

More shots sounded and Sherlock heard shouts somewhere.  
The world was suddenly full of noise and shadows.  
Chaos broke out and foreign blood dripped onto his forehead when a body fell down beside him, a hole between the eyes in which an echo of astonishment was to be seen.

 _The Eastwind_ , Sherlock thought weakly. _The Eastwind is here…Finally._

He lost consciousness when he felt hands, friendly hands, pressing reassuringly on his face and from far away he heard the voice of his big brother calling his name.

 

_And the Eastwind took them all away…_

_Away, away to a distant land._


	2. Two Years

John Watson stood at the cemetery and took a shaky gulp from the bottle of beer in his hand.  
The sound of firework crashed in the distance. High-spirited, carefree youngsters…

"Congratulations," John said hoarsely to Sherlock's grave stone. "You’ve been dead for two years now, bastard. Better than being here. "

He laughed joylessly and a little hysterically. Some older ladies who paced the grave rows behind him, threw him a suspicious look.  
John dropped a few drops of alcohol on the grave. "Cheerio."  
He stared at the lettering with dull eyes. The white lilies were half-frozen in the cold winter air. Mrs. Hudson had bought them, of course.

"Why am I still here?" He muttered to himself. "I don’t know. You tell me, Sherlock. What am I doing, goddamnit?  Why haven't I taken a bullet to the head? Maybe I'm a coward ... you weren’t one. You jumped right from a fucking roof ... "

He took another sip of alcohol.  
His phone buzzed.  
John fished it lifelessly from his jacket pocket.

Perhaps a new message from Lestrade ... The same questions constantly.

_How are you , John ?_

_Shall we have a drink together, John?_

_There is this special case, John ... do you want to come?_

He really had enough of it.

 But when John looked at the screen, he froze.  
The message was not from Greg .  
It was from

_Mycroft Holmes._

 ‘John. I need your help. Come as soon as possible to Baker Street. Please. MH’

  _Please?_

 Intrigued, John stroked his face.

  _Please…_

 A Mycroft Holmes asked for nothing. He took it.  
Damn, John was surprised that there stood no black sedan behind him.  
Apparently, it was serious.  
It was probably about Sherlock.  
John swallowed.

He hadn’t seen Mycroft for a long time now ... he'd barely spoken to him since the funeral.  
Mycroft Holmes was at least someone who ... well, he got along with, right?  
What could he want with John?

John put the phone back into his coat pocket, frowning.  
He put the empty bottle of beer next to the frostbitten lilies and put a hand on the gravestone.  
“I’ll be back soon ," he said hoarsely , fighting the lump in his throat. "You won't go away, huh? ... Yes“  
He swallowed and then turned around.  
He left the cemetery and called a taxi to Baker Street.

John could feel the pounding that announced the usual headaches that followed his drinking, as he waited on the road.  
A rocket flew above him in the night sky and burst in a muddle of colours.

Soon it would be New Year …

*

"John," Mycroft said in an exhausted tone, as he opened the door. "Thank you for coming."

John stared at the older Holmes speechless.

He could not believe what he saw before himself.

Mycroft looked ...like a mess. As if he had not slept for nights and had hardly eaten anything. There were dark circles under his eyes, almost purple. His hair was messy and longer than usual. John was surprised that it was actually slightly curled at the ends. Mycroft was not wearing a suit, like usual. Instead, he wore only a white shirt, which was crumpled and was stained with some spots on breast height. And ... stubbles.

John swallowed.  
He wondered if Mycroft had a kind of delayed grief reaction.  
A nervous breakdown.  
He knew that this occurred. With some people.  
Everyone handled it differently…  
He himself preferred alcohol and soliloquies.

"Mycroft," he said cautiously. "Is everything alright? Is it because of Sherlock? "

Mycroft let out a mirthless, short laugh that frightened John even more.  
"Yes ... yes, you could say so. Come in, John. Please."

"Uhm, yes, sure ..."

John entered the apartment behind Mycroft.  
It smelled vaguely of chicken soup and ... disinfectants?  
Quiet music and soft violins sounds floated from above through the stairwell, and shocked John slightly.  
The image before his eyes ... Sherlock, with the violin on his shoulder, his eyes closed, in the highest concentration and relaxation ... John quickly shook the image away.

He followed Mycroft, who first introduced him to Mrs. Hudson, who did not seem to be there in the small kitchen.  
The elder Holmes pointed silently to one of the chairs at the table and John sat down on it. Interrogatively, he raised his eyebrows and looked at Mycroft.  
Mycroft sat down sighing towards John, with slow movements, as if he was in pain while doing it.

"John," he began hesitantly and nervously stroked over his pale face. "This ... is not easy. But I don’t know what to do. Yes," he said with a sarcastic, crooked grin that would not quite suit him. "This really happened actually ... I do not know what to do ..."

"Mycroft," John said gently, despite his throbbing headache. "It is OK. I understand that. You can talk to me, okay? Everyone feels grief differently ...“

Mycroft raised a hand, and John fell silent, shocked by the abysmally desperate look the other man now showed him.  
"No, John. You don’t understand. Sherlock..." Mycroft cleared his throat hoarsely and looked down at the table. He ... he isn’t dead. John. Sherlock is alive. "

Silence.

Only interrupted by the gentle sounds of the distant music.

John stared at the other man, stunned.

_Oh God. Mycroft had lost his mind._

He swallowed the lump in his throat and scratched helplessly at the back of his head. Mycroft continued to stare at the table.  
_Christ_... John had no idea what to say to that.  
He was at the end by himself. Desperate and depressed. From time to time he even welcomed death eagerly - like today at the cemetery. Not to mention the slight alcohol addiction he'd developed...  
How should he help a Mycroft Holmes, who was being very not-Mycroft-Holmes at the moment?

"You don’t believe me, do you?" Mycroft asked, pulling John out of his thoughts .  
The elderly Holmes looked at him attentively and John cleared his throat embarrassed.

"Mycroft ... I, uh, Sherlock ... he's dead," he tried to say as gently as possible.  
_God, these headaches were getting worse with every second...._

"We buried him, remember? The church? The speech that you gave - the burial, huh "?

He half hoped Mycroft would come to his senses now, just shake his head to collect himself, and then would say: But of course. I remember. That was only a small loss of control. I'm sorry, John.

But instead, Mycroft sighed heavily, then said quietly and seriously: "No John. We have not buried Sherlock. Sherlock is alive and he needs you now. He needs you urgently. "

  _Damn it…_

 John took a deep breath.

"Mycroft ..."

"I can prove it to you, John," Mycroft said and John froze.

  _No…_

 "I ...," he said uncertainly, but Mycroft already stood up and pointed invitingly towards the stairs.

"Come, I'll show you. But I must warn you. Its .... not particularly pleasant, I'm afraid."  
And he ran up the stairs.  
John followed him in a daze, his headache now a steady, loud knocking. It rushed in his ears.  
The music grew louder as they walked into the apartment.  
It was like a shock for John ... everything was as usual. Everything like before.

The couch.

Their Armchairs.

The chimney.

And it ... burned.

Comforting warmth in the room.

_Lord God in heaven..._

That was too much…

 John was breathing heavily, trying to keep control of himself as he followed Mycroft through the familiar living room to Sherlock's room, where the music seemed to come from.  
God, Mycroft it seemed to go much worse than himself...  
At least John had never had such a realistic hallucination.  
In a moment Mycroft would open the door, and there will be an empty room...  
No detective who cried angry and ordered him to leave immediately...

P _iss off, Mycroft!_

No. Never again.

John swallowed as Mycroft opened the door to Sherlock's room cautiously, quietly and peered inside.  
He seemed relieved by what he saw.  
"He is sleeping ... The music helps. Sometimes," he said softly and waved to John to join him.

John smiled at him half-heartedly, though he was sick.

_Christ…_

He went to Mycroft, stood beside him and also looked into the room.

The next moment, he froze.  
A gasp broke escaped his lips.  
His legs were suddenly weak and trembling.

_God. No._

 

_No no no._

 

Sherlock's room looked like always.

Apart from the CD player on the windowsill and the hospital bed, against that Sherlock’s earlier bed had been replaced. In addition, a drip and an ECG - and in the bed, almost completely covered by a blanket, lay a figure, lay - Sherlock.  
It was hardly more of him visible than his thick, curly hair.  
But there he was.

Sherlock.

John could not breathe. He stared, and eventually Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder.  
John hardly noticed.

"You can go to him," the elderly Holmes said in a sad tone. "He will not wake up now, I guess."

John let the air that he had held in, escape and took a step backward. Then another forward.  
His chest felt as though it was hit by a wrecking ball that left a big hole.

 

_No…_

 

 _This is a hallucination, John_ , a voice whispered in his head. _A hallucination._  
_Mycroft has upset you so much that now,  you have illusions too ... Nothing more._

Yes, this had to be true…  
But it did not look like a hallucination.

John walked slowly, on shaky legs, into the room. He walked into the quiet, soothing music and the cloud of sterile hospital smell and human sweat  
He walked forward until he was standing next to the bed.  
He put a hand on the safety grid, trying not to turn his gaze to the head of hair on the pillow.  
The grid did not disappeared ... It was cold and firm. It was real.  
John gasped frantically.

_God ... Jesus..._

A hallucination...  
Slowly, as externally controlled, John held out his hand to Sherlock's sleeping face, which was half covered by a bandage, as he saw now.  
He held his breath. And then his fingers gently touched Sherlock’s forehead. A cool, wet forehead.

_Oh. Oh God._

"Sherlock," John whispered in disbelief. Tears rushed to his eyes. "God ... Sherlock."  
He pulled back his hand, as if he had burnt himself and held on breathlessly to the security grid.

_No no no…_

Was it a nightmare?

Somewhere he could hear Mycroft's voice. Somewhere far away.  
But a loud noise filled his ears.  
Fulfilled his whole world, as he stared in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock...

Sherlock was not dead.

Sherlock was alive.

_Sherlock..._

The next moment John’s eyes rolled back into his head and hecollapsed beside the bed.

*

_Something was wrong..._

_Something ... something was wrong here._

_But what?_

_What?_

_Sherlock walked, frowning, down the hallway of his mind palace and thought feverishly that something was different here than usual._

_This was difficult, because he did not seem to be able to think …_

_Oh, how he hated it, to not being able to think._

_Everything was so hazy and indistinct, all so transparent and ... and since when was it so cold here? He always burn the fireplace ... Always._

_Somewhere, far away, it seemed someone was playing violin ..._

_Mycroft?_

_Mycroft had ... he had really played for him?_

_Yes._

_Sherlock vaguely remembered that Mycroft had played for him, just like in the old days._

_But when..._

_And why?_

_Why?_

_Because…_

_It had something to do with the Eastwind._

_It…_

_God, he had to make it become clear. Think ... Think, Sherlock._

_John._

_John would help him to become clearer._

_John was not allowed to know that he was not dead, but that was fine. Because he was here. John was here all the time._

_Yes, Sherlock knew where John was.  
Knew where the room was._

_He walked purposefully toward it, and put his hand on the doorknob._  
The door opened heavier than usual.  
And when it finally swung open, it creaked loudly. Creaked like a door in one of those silly scary movies that John was so fond of.

_"John," Sherlock said quietly and looked searching around in the bright room. "John, I cannot concentrate. Something is wrong and I don't know what it is. You have to help me. Where are you?"_

Who is John, Sherlock?

_Sherlock froze when he heard the malicious voice in his ear.  
His neck hairs stood up._

Is John a friend of yours?

 _That voice._  
He knew that voice.  
It was HIS voice.

_No…._

_Sherlock turned hastily towards the door - but it slammed closed in his face.  
A bang. Loudly. Definitively._

_He shook the door knob. Desperately. It had to rise. The doors always rose.  
This door remained closed._

_Sherlock gave up when he was out of breath and turned on the spot and looked into the room. "John?" He asked uncertainly, anxiety building inside him. "John are you here?"_

There is no John, little detective _, the voice said softly into his ear. Sherlock pressed his hands against his head, moaning._

_Go away ... this is John's room!_

_But the voice did not disappear._

I'm not done with you yet ... we have all the time in the world ... and maybe we can get John into it, huh? Let him join a little...

_"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted furiously and pressed his hands hard against his head. The music was gone..._

_He was cold._

_So cold._

_Sherlock fell to the ground and tears welled up in his eyes as the pain came back ... So much pain ... too much. It was too much._

_But he was not allowed to talk..._

_If he spoke everything was for nothing…_

_They all would be in danger._

_Everybody._

_John…_

_John had to be safe._

_When the pain shook him, Sherlock’s vision became disturbed,  as the walls around him became cracks._

_John…_

 

**_John, help me._ **


	3. So Tired...

"John? Can you hear me, John?"

A voice...far away, a blurred, resounding echo and yet urgent. Unbearably assertive, intertwined in his vague thoughts that came back slowly and turned to shreds

His eyes opened slowly and the world around him swayed immediately.  
Colorful shadows  were before him, distorted in absurd forms.

Nausea.

John closed his eyes firmly again.  
He wanted to go back into the silent darkness.  
Back in the peaceful, merciful unconsciousness, but a hand slapped him lightly on the cheek. Once, twice, three times. Emphatically, yet burning.

"John. Stay with me."

_I don't want to…_

**_You need to._ **

Reluctantly John opened one eye, squinting into the painful brightness and into a blurred face.

"That's good. Deep breaths."

The voice was light. Bright and pleasant, John noticed now.

A woman…

He managed to focus and looked into blue eyes, framed by mascara.  
Red lips curled into a gentle smile.  
A hand lightly on his shoulder.

John shook his head in confusion and was finally capable of organizing his thoughts.

_Mycroft ..._

_Sherlock ..._

_Sherlock alive._

_Sherlock in the hospital bed in his room, unconscious. Associations._

_Music and chicken soup._

_Collapse._

_I fainted_ , John thought dully. _Well, that's something new..._

"How do you feel?" The woman before him asked gently and John refocused on her. He frowned.

"Dizzy..."

"Yes, you should have a drink," she said kindly, handing him a glass of water out of nowhere.

"Thank you," John said flatly and drank the glass in one gulp. He cleared his throat.

"I...I usually don't pass out," he said weakly, and the woman pulled her full lips to a knowing smile.

“It's not a pleasant experience. I know. Can you stand up?"

John could. Even if it took a long time. Longer than he liked.

He looked around.

He was no longer in Sherlock's bedroom. Instead, he was in the living room.

He still could hear quiet violin sounds which floated gently through the room.

He swallowed.

Mycroft was nowhere in sight.  
He turned to the woman who looked at him attentively.  
She was about as tall as he, and dressed in a dapper suit. Her long, brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail.

"Um," John said embarrassed, scratching his neck. "And you are ...?"

"Doctor Sahra Whitecheapel," she said quietly and shook his hand. "Call me Sahra. I'm a trauma expert, actually. But I am quite familiar with spontaneous fainting as well, John."

"Oh," John said and shook her hand briefly. "Are you here because of..."

"Sherlock, yes," she said, and John shook his head helplessly.

"I thought he - he was dead," he said softly, Sahra nodded briefly.

"I know. Mycroft told me everything."

John nodded and kneaded his fingers restlessly. "Um, where is he?"

“With Sherlock. He asked me to explain it to you. “Said he felt just not capable of doing it by himself," Sahra said, pointing to the chair by the fireplace. "Shall we sit?"

"Oh. Yes," John said, feeling nauseous again as he realized that he had now to deal with it...With everything.

With Sherlock, who was alive.  
With Sherlock, for whom he had mourned, for nothing.

 

Wasted Years...  
Disturbing presence.

  
Uncertain future.

*

"He was scared," Mycroft said gently and stroked Sherlock's uninjured cheek. "No wonder, isn't it...But he's here now. He will hear everything and then he will understand. He will be able to help you. More than I could, Sherlock."

Mycroft sighed and looked at the silent, lifeless face of his brother.  
The faint sounds of music made him tired.  
He was so very tired.  
For days now.

Each day always followed the same pattern.

Restless sleep, which ended with Sherlock's hoarse screams.  
The dizzying dash into Sherlock's room...soothing, giving comfort, drying tears.  
Thereafter, the first medication.

The easy part...that was the easy part.  
After that, the fighting came:

Freeing Sherlock of the infusions and cables without injuring him because he flinched at the slightest touch.  
Supporting him on the way to the bathroom without losing his grip and striking his head again. Once again, old wounds were ripped open.  
Urging him to wash, even though her had flashbacks and believed he was suffocating.  
Convincing him to go to the toilet, although he mostly wet the sheets.

Meanwhile, making the bed and getting new sheets, in a hurry, so Sherlock wouldn't be alone for too long in the bathroom.  
Then bringing Sherlock back to bed,  and reconnecting the infusions and cables.

Then the next medication.  
After that was the attempt to get a little food into him.  
Eternities spent encouraging:

_Please Sherlock, just a little toast, you need it, please. Just for me… For me…_

And then the music. He slowly fell asleep while Mycroft held him in his arms and muttered stories. Stories for which he needed no books anymore. He could memorize them all. Finally, when Sherlock was sleeping, Mycroft allowed himself to eat. But it gave him no satisfaction.

He was so tired...

They had tried it with a nurse, and with a caregiver. One or two times. It had been a disaster. In every sense. Sherlock was not calm, as the foreign hands touched him. He only allowed Mycroft near to him.  
And so, he had them all sent away, and had to take on the caregiving himself. Something that he had never thought possible. Mycroft Holmes...a full-time caregiver.  
Only supported by Doctor Whitecheapel, which he considered to be trustworthy. He knew her from before. A good doctor. She gave him advice. Talked to him. Talked about old times. About the people he knew and protected. Talking him out of the trauma. Give him everyday life. Safety. Rest and peace.

Mycroft tried. He really tried. But every morning there was only silence. And fear in Sherlock's eyes. Fear that never disappeared. Omnipresent.

But now John Watson was there. John, who meaned more than anything else for Sherlock. John, for whom Sherlock did everything. John, who had made Sherlock happy. So happy.  
He had to do it again now.  
Mycroft Holmes was tired.

 _I could really use a release,_ he thought as he stroked Sherlock's hair. _Some rest...Just a little rest._

*

John stared at the documents in his hands.  
Incredulous.  
Frozen in horror.

_Lord in heaven..._

First, there were lists of the injuries with which Sherlock had been taken to hospital.  
Injury, in which John was able to find the word for what had happened, immediately.

Torture.

Sherlock had been tortured.

In every possible way.

They had torn out his nails, burned his feet, broken his fingers - several times - cut his arms, legs and chest, hit him, green and blue all over his body - again and again - whipped him until his back hung in bloody shreds, broke his right cheekbone, cut his face and infected the cuts with dirt and apparently pushed him underwater until he nearly suffocated because in the documents it says that Sherlock had fought against the oxygen mask like a madman.

Dehydrated, malnourished, half frozen, high blood loss, major trauma...  
The diagnosis took up an entire page.

John's fingers trembled as he read the pages that documented of Sherlock's rescue in Serbia.

Mycroft.  
Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes in person,  had walked down to the basement and had three of the torturers simply shot - and then he read- during the flight to the hospital in London, Sherlock had three attacks of severe psychosis.

Finally, he read that Sherlock was repeatedly operated on and eventually had been released back into Mycroft's care, because he was not able to calm down in the hospital.

_God..._

_Jesus..._

John dropped the documents and stared into the fire.  
He swallowed and shook his head.

"Why?" He whispered flatly.

Sahra watched him from her chair and lowered her head sadly.  
"Mycroft told me everything. Sherlock had faked his suicide two years ago to protect you, Gregory Lestrade and Mrs. Martha Hudson.  
Moriarty threatened to have them killed if he didn't jump.  
Sherlock disappeared with the help of Molly Hooper, his brother, and a few people from his homeless network in order to destroy Moriarty's network so that all of you would no longer be at risk. He traveled all over the world. Unraveled the entire network, until he ended up in Serbia. That would have been the last job."

John swallowed.  
Sahra's words stabbed him in the heart.  
It hurt.  
A lot.

_Oh Sherlock..._

"What happened?" He asked hoarsely.

"He was caught," Sahra said quietly. "They abducted him and tortured him to get information. It took Mycroft a while to find out what had happened.  
He himself travelled to Serbia to find Sherlock.  
When he found him and freed him, he was already losing his mind.  
He is in a serious trauma, John.  
He let only Mycroft near to him. Only responds to his voice.  
A regression of the worst kind. It is very ... painful for Mycroft. It destroys him. Although he would never admit it, of course. But I can see it. That's my job.  
It was I who also finally encouraged him to include you. Mycroft said you could still be in danger, but I I told him that you could help."

John swallowed again.

_My God…_

Oh Sherlock.

Unfortunate, selfless Sherlock...

The one time her thought more about others...

He was tortured because of the friends he claimed not to have.

A sharp pang of guilt shot through John, as he thought of how many times he had cursed Sherlock.  
How often he had insulted him in thought.  
In a drunken stupor.

So often…

_Bastard ..._

_Freak ..._

_Heartless…_

_Selfish…_

**_Machine._ **

And what had Sherlock done meanwhile?  
He had fought...  
To ensure their safety.  
Alone.  
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

 _I'm sorry,_ John thought desperately. _I'm so, so sorry...  
But, I am a broken human too…_

And he looked at Sahra, with deep sadness in his eyes.

"I don't know...I... how can I help?" He asked helplessly. "I have mourned. So much..." He laughed bitterly. "I'm a wreck. An alcohol-impaired, mentally clouded wreck, Sahra."

Sahra looked at him attentively and nodded slightly.  
"I know it's hard, John. After two years of mourning ... But for Sherlock, you need to get back. You must begin to realize that he is alive. That he needs your help. Can you do that?"

John hesitated, then looked down at the documents in his hand.

_All this pain ..._

_God._

John saw Sherlock before him, alone and scared in a dark basement. Tormented and cold and hungry.  
Screams ...

Did Sherlock shout for him? Did he beg John for help? Did he scream his name until his throat was  
John almost staggered back at the thought.  
He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply. Then he opened them again and looked at Sara.  
"Yes ... I can do it. I ... at least I'll try," he said softly.

Sahra nodded. "I'll help you, John."

"Ok," he said in a trembling voice, stroking his sweaty forehead.

"Then on into battle ..."

*

_Sherlock was shaking._

_Why was it so cold..._

_He couldn't open the door._

_He was trapped._

_The voice was gone now._

_Luckily._

_It said things ..._

_About John._

_That he did not care,_

_That he hated Sherlock, as did all._

_Sherlock shivered and hugged his body even closer._

_There was nothing..._

_Only the floor and cracked walls and the silence._

_I want to get out of here …_

_I want ... John_

_I want to solve cases and drink tea by the fireplace and see all the boring movies that John likes so much._

_I want to see him laughing._

_John …_

_Sherlock whimpered and wrapped his arms around himself._

_Was there a way out?_

_Or did he have to stay here forever._

_Along with the voice and the pain and the cold?_

_Was this death?_

_Was this his personal hell?_

_Was this eternity?_

_Sherlock shivered in the cold and a tear rolled slowly down his face while the silence crushed him._

_And from far away,_

_like a cruel mocking echo,_

_he heard his name,_

_whispered,_

_a breathy sigh,_

_that almost_

_sounded like John's voice._

"Sherlock..."


	4. Breakdown

Everything in John cried out for a drink when he put his finger on the cold handle of the door to Sherlock's room.

 _Alcohol_...The promise of bittersweet forgetfulness.

All thoughts, all memories stayed locked in a remote corner of his memory. His body apparently packed in warm cotton ... the world a soft noise. And finally - sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep. Peace for a few hours.  
This was the state in which he had spent the last few weeks mostly.  
Dizziness. Gracious dizziness.

But now he was fully there and it hurt.  
It hurt so much.  
And this time there was no escape. This time there was no forgetting.  
That was not an option.

Not if this was about Sherlock.

Sherlock ... who lived. Who wasn’t dead.

He was sick and injured and needed his help.

John swallowed and finally cautiously opened the door.  
Almost immediately, his eyes fell on Sherlock's sleeping face and this time, after a few glasses of cool water and minutes of reflection after the shock that had overtaken him when he had seen Sherlock for the first time - alive!  - He noticed details that had previously eluded him.  
He saw them as he slowly entered the room, walking into the soft violin music and into the cloud of warm air, a mix of sweat and the smell of medications.

Mycroft watched him silently from the side, as he stopped by Sherlock's bed and looked down at him.

It was terrifying.  
Frighteningly real.  
John swallowed.

Sherlock looked as if he were barely alive.  
Pale skin, which had a slightly grey shimmer.  
Within the feeble curls he there were a significant amount of grey hairs.  
Cheekbones that stood out too much.  
Sherlock had always been thin. But never as thin as he was now.

And then, as John's gaze slid further down, he saw Sherlock's bare right arm, which was lying on the blanket and from which the infusion cannula stuck out. And he saw what Sherlock had always hidden from him and the others. Countless punctate scars that extended up to the upper arm.

John swallowed and put a hand to his own forehead under Mycroft’s knowing glance. He was sweating. He was terribly hot.

_Memories …_

Even in midsummer, when John had often walked around shirtless in the apartment and still sweating, Sherlock had even then worn shirts with long sleeves. John had never asked him why. But he had known it somehow. Had suspected that Sherlock didn’t want anyone to see his arms. Anyone to see the scars. The evidence of a time that Sherlock had never wanted to talk about. With anyone. Not even with John.

_Displacement …_

"You know," Mycroft, whose silence had John been observing, said softly. His voice sounded tired.  
"He was always sickly...as a child he had always had something. A cold, the flu, mumps...it seemed as if he wanted to try out every single disease once to watch what they did to him. He was so vulnerable. Once at eight years old, he had such a high fever that we had to go to the hospital. I remember how he begged me to stay with him. The strange environment scared him. And I stayed. All night. He looked so small and fragile in this hospital bed. "

John listened to Mycroft's words in silence as he continued to stare down at the scars on Sherlock's arm.

"Many years later I was with him all night in the hospital again. It was when the thing with the drugs started. At first I didn’t notice it. I had a lot of work to do...he was in college and I was sure he wouldn’t do something like that. But then he accidentally overdosed on cocaine. You can surely imagine the shock that this incident gave me, John...I went with him to the hospital and and sat him down to talk. He begged me not to tell our parents - who, at the time, lived far from London in the countryside - and he assured me that it was the last time. He promised he would stay away from the drugs."

Mycroft’s view adopted a lost expression.

"He swore to me ... And I stayed the night with him.”

A few weeks later he had a relapse.

I ... I admit that I didn’t quite know what to do. I have not spoken to him about it. I didn’t understand Sherlock’s behavior. I couldn’t understand why he threw away his high intelligence for something this mundane. I cut off his money and only paid for the Student Apartment and important purchases. Sherlock called me on the phone. He called me a traitor and a bastard. There were words on his lips, that I had never heard from him. I was completely overwhelmed with this situation, John. And I just didn’t know why exactly Sherlock grabbed Drugs. Today I understand it ... That I think at least.

And then Sherlock disappeared soon after, without leaving a trace. “He … is good at disappearing. I taught him," Mycroft gave a short, bitter laugh. John winced at the unaccustomed noise. He fixed his eyes on the older Holmes and looked frightened as he trembled slightly and the sweat beaded on his forehead. Deep dark circles were under Mycroft's eyes. The sight was terrifying.

Mycroft continued.

"I could not find him. No one could find him. I've let him down, John. I wasn’t there and I didn’t look after him. Why wasn’t I there for him?”

John swallowed. He didn’t know what to say to that.

"At some point, weeks later, some of my people found him. He was ... almost no longer alive. The poison in his body...the cold and malnutrition...the doctors believed, for some time, that he wouldn’t wake up again. But he did. And again the excuses and promises ... but I could no longer trust him. I let him be admitted in a rehab clinic. He has never forgiven me for that ..."

Mycroft paused a moment and looked down at Sherlock. He reached out a trembling hand and stroked a stray curl from the warm forehead of his brother.

"And then finally everything seemed to be better...Sherlock met Greg Lestrade, who recognized his talent and knew how he could use it. The cases came. You came, John...And Sherlock seemed happy.  
He was still full of hate for me, but as long as he was okay, I could live with it. Moriarty ..."

Mycroft spoke the name with so much contempt and hatred that John’s hands clenched themselves involuntarily.

"Moriarty has made all a mess ... The case has destroyed Sherlock’s life. And yours, John."

Mycroft looked at him seriously and John had to look away quickly.  
Oh yeah. His life had been destroyed by the grief. The lack of understanding about Sherlock's sudden "suicide". Binge drinking had replaced the hunt for criminals and made him a bitter wreck. His own desperate addiction. The craving for alcohol was stronger than ever.  
Yet he stood there, beside friend he believed to be dead, and listening to a story that sounded like an absurd tragedy in several acts...

"First I didn’t want Sherlock to go alone. But he insisted. He said alone he would get less attention. And first he had great success with it, with destroying Moriarty’s network...He brought a lot of his minions behind bars. Some of them he killed. And he erased his footsteps so well every time that I couldn’t even see them immediately. He was thorough.

But towards the end he may have become euphoric. This last job in Serbia...At I first didn’t know that something had gone wrong. Sherlock has never let me regularly hear from him ... Sure, I had an idea. But I didn’t hear enough on it, as it seems. When I finally knew that Sherlock had been caught and deported to Serbia, a few days had passed. I travelled there with a mission team ..."

Breathless, John listened Mycroft’s words. He already knew what had happened in Serbia, but to hear it from Mycroft's mouth was something quite different.

"We finally managed to get someone into our hands who could tell us where Sherlock was held. We invaded there. It was ... God, John, you can’t imagine what it's like to see the own brother so ... there in this filthy basement. The smells ... The sounds ... He was ... bathed in blood and dirt. Barely recognizable. And a ... one of the men had his hands on him and I shot him and two others ..."

John understood only vaguely, as Dr. Whitecheapel quietly entered the room. His eyes were fixed on Mycroft's lips. The words cut into his heart. The imagination almost too much for him.

"He was unconscious, when it was over. He was unconscious while we got him out and took him to the aircraft. But at some point he woke up and he ... he cried and struggled against the medics. It was hard to calm him down ... later in the hospital too. A nightmare. The doctors said later that he was tortured at least for two weeks. And I wasn’t there, John. I wasn’t there."  
Mycroft looked up, and John saw horrified tears shining in his eyes. _What had happened to make Mycroft Holmes about to cry?_

John didn’t know.

"I was not there," Mycroft said again. It sounded stunned.

"It's not your fault, Mycroft," John said as calmly as he could. But Mycroft seemed to barely hear him.

"Why," he said, breathing heavily, clenching his fist. "Why do I always let him be alone? Why wasn’t I there? "

 _He is on the verge of a nervous breakdown_ , John thought worriedly.

Seemingly also Sahra was aware of that. The doctor put a hand on Mycroft’s arm, and he looked uo at her, confused.

"Come, Mycroft," she said softly. "You should lie down for a while now.  You are very exhausted. John here will take care of Sherlock, alright?"

"I ... I can’t leave him alone," Mycroft said hoarsely and John’s heart clenched. "Can’t let him alone again ..."

"He is not alone," Sahra replied calmly and finally Mycroft got to his feet and let the doctor lead him out of the room. Sahra threw John another look and said, "Call me if anything happens. I gave him something so he can sleep and I will be back again soon. "

John nodded and she closed the door behind her and Mycroft.

John stood there, still shocked by Mycroft's words and his unstable condition and looked down at Sherlock, who had not moved.  
He clenched his fists undecided and loosened them again.  
The music was now silent. The CD apparently expired.  
It was unnaturally quiet in the room.

John let his gaze once again slide over Sherlock's face. Over the pale skin and the bandages. In his stomach a knot became steadily larger...It hurt so much.  
All this suffering. For what? For _what_?

Mycroft suffered and blamed himself for everything.

John suffered, and he didn’t know what he should do.

Sherlock was suffering and had been through so much agony. Alone.

"Oh Sherlock", John whispered as tears welled in his eyes. "I wish I could just easily undo all of this. I wish we would sitting now, here in Baker Street...in front of the fireplace, with tea and biscuits from Mrs. Hudson. We would talk about a case. Outside it would rain and slowly get dark. We would lose track of time and eventually we would become tired ... "

He swallowed.

"I don’t want the reality. I don’t want all this suffering. All this pain."

He reached out his hand and gently touched Sherlock's forehead.

"But I wanted to have you. And here you are, it's not how I would have liked it ... Not what anyone of us wanted -. But you're alive. I'm alive. And we will manage this somehow."  
He took a deep breath and whispered, "So, don’t you want to wake up for me? Hm? Wake up Sherlock. Look at me. I'm here. I'm here now. "  
He sat down on the chair in which Mycroft previously sat and took Sherlock's right hand in his.

“You know," he began to speak softly. "In the beginning I often hoped you would show up at the door sometime ... You would grin at me and say: Surprise! I'm not dead, John. Let’s solve a case!

I have often dreamed of …”

 

John's gentle voice echoed in the small room.  
He kept talking, while outside the rain tapped on the window and the wind pushed the trees down.  
He kept talking, talking about the past and his hopes and his dreams.  
He kept speaking while he waited for Sherlock to wake up.

*

_John._

_It was John's voice._

_It was clearly John's voice that spoke to him._

_Still silent, indistinct, but exactly as Sherlock remembered John. Warmth and patience and confidence in his voice._

_Sherlock raised his head from his knees and listened irritated._

_Was this another trick? Another trick to retrieve him from the consciousness so that they could keep asking the same questions...The same old questions._

_And so they could continue with the torture. With the pain._

_John's voice asked him to wake up._

_Quietly, friendly emphatically._

_Asked him to come back._

_It was nice to hear John's voice._

_Lately there had been only Mycroft ... or a mixture of Mycroft's voice and the voice of a woman he didn’t know. However, she didn’t seemed to be a threat._

_And of course there was THE voice. HIS voice. Sherlock shuddered and wrapped his arms around his shivering body._

_Now HE was gone. For the moment. And the door was not locked. Sherlock could feel it._

 

_But HE might come back at any time._

 

_HE would come back..._

 

_It was so cold here...._

 

_Where John was it would certainly be warm._

_Warmth, security, refuge._

 

 **_But what if it's a trap?_ ** _, a voice whispered to him._

 

_Yes. It might be a trap._

_It would not be the first time._

_Not the first time that he woke up from a dream and there were only pain and despair waiting for him._

_He didn’t know, couldn’t know what was real - and what was not._

But it is John _, Sherlock thought desperately._ I have to risk it...If John is really...It is worth the risk. I have to figure it out _._

_Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on John's voice._

 

"Wake up, Sherlock ..."

 

_And Sherlock woke up._

 

 


	5. Awakening

Reality finally caught up with John, as Sherlock opened his eyes.

Until that moment he had still felt like a dreamer. A dreamer who walked in the shadows met vague figures and slipped from one surreal situation into the other. Too often had he dreamed of Sherlock. Too often had he experienced his return in all variations. Had opened the door and had seen Sherlock in front of him, babbling apologies and explanations, until, in his dreams, John strangled him with a hug. Had stood before the grave and Sherlock had suddenly come out from behind a tree. He had experienced his last miracle often enough, and then awakened, to arrive in reality again and to understand, accept, to … to despair.

This scenario, however, he had never seen in his dreams. Sherlock in his bed, injured and weak and helpless.

But until now he had unconsciously clung to the thought that this was also just another scrap of illusion. Another deception that tormented him and tried to drive him into bitterness.

Until now.

Until Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.

John held his breath.

Frozen in place he stared into those eyes. Into those pale silver eyes. The sight so familiar and at the same time such a shock.

For a brief moment the world seemed to stand still while John Watson finally caught up with reality and it was like a punch in the face. Because that this was real, meant that there was a very hard, painful time waiting for John – for both of them.

John kept breathing and Sherlock blinked at the ceiling.

 

"Sherlock," John said softly.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond. He continued to stare at the ceiling and John swallowed. The questions raced through his mind.

Could he risk touching Sherlock? Sara had said he only allowed Mycroft to touch him.

Should he call for Sara? Or should he simply try it? Could he even be sure that Sherlock would recognize him?

He knew so little about the human psyche ...

But he knew that pain changed people. All kinds of people.

He had treated torture victims in Afghanistan. Had seen to terrible wounds, while formerly lively and strong, brave and righteous men, had trembled under his hands and cried like little children. They had murmured confused, incoherent words and at night when the dreams came, they screamed and relived all the pain.

But these people had not been Sherlock. John had not had ... emotional attachment to these men. They had been his patients. There had been an insurmountable distance and after a few days the soldiers were sent back to England. And had undoubtedly been sectioned into one of the many psychiatric hospitals in the country.

And John had taken care of the next wounded men ... A routine of chaos.

Now he was here, before him lay Sherlock and he felt helpless.

He could hear the faint call for alcohol, echoing in his head. A touch of longing for the burning liquid, which promised forgetting and imigating.

He shook away the desire, with a twinge of shame, and focused on Sherlock again, who had still not moved. He just stared at the ceiling, expressionless.

"Sherlock," John said again, after a brief hesitation, this time a little louder.

Nothing.

John hesitated for a moment longer, then he slowly raised his hand and placed it gently on Sherlock's right, which lay on top of the blanket.

"Sherlock," he repeated. "Look at me, Sherlock."

Immediately Sherlock winced and pulled his hand away, as if he had been burned by John. He let out a soft whimper, which cut right into the middle of John’s heart and for a moment he just wanted to take Sherlock into his arms, but he held back and tried to gain Sherlock’s attention with words once again.

"Sherlock, it's me, John! Look at me, will you?" He said concerned and this time Sherlock finally turned his head in the direction of John’s voice. His eyes fell on John and tried to focus.

John tried to smile, hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace.

"Alright, yeah? I am here, Sherlock. John."

Sherlock blinked, then, for the first time in two years, John heard his voice and it ... was a shock. Another shock.

John took a sharp breath and tears welled up in his eyes when he heard that voice. Uncertain and hesitant and barely audible - but it was Sherlock's voice. The voice, which he thought he would never hear again, except in the dreams which tormented and mocked him ... and yet, there it was.

"John?"

John wiped a tear from his cheek and nodded. "Yes. I am here, Sherlock. John. It'll be okay, alright?"

Sherlock stared at him, frowning, as if he were thinking intently and then he said very quietly: "Are you ... real?"

John’s stomach seemed to compress into a painful knot.

"Yes," he said softly. "I'm real, Sherlock. I am real. Here," He held out his hand, not touching Sherlock this time. He felt like he was going to cry, when Sherlock flinched away from him slightly, and his eyes widened in obvious anxiety and panic, but John pulled himself together.

He had to remain calm and strong. In this moment there was no time for his own worries and problems and fears. He had to be there for Sherlock.

He kept his hand in the air, in reach of Sherlock but without touching him and smiled invitingly. "You can touch it, yeah? To see that I'm really here."

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes flickering back and forth between John's face and his hand. Uncertainty and doubt lay in his eyes.

John waited patiently. He didn’t let his hand fall, and finally Sherlock raised his own right hand and held it out slowly, very carefully to John’s, until their fingertips touched lightly. John saw how Sherlock froze and how his eyes widened again, this time in apparent surprise. Sherlock moved his hand further until their palms were touching.

Skin on skin. Warmth met feverish heat.

Sherlock swallowed. "John," he said again. "John ... you were in my dreams. In good dreams."

John smiled sadly and closed his hand carefully around Sherlock’s, who didn’t flinch away this time. "I'm not a dream, Sherlock. I'm here. And everything will be alright, okay?"

Sherlock didn’t answer. His confused gaze wandered through the room, as if he was looking for something. He then refocused on John and his gaze became questioning.

"Myke? Where is …"

"He has gone to bed, Sherlock," John told him and pushed back the confusion that had arisen when he heard the strange abbreviation of Mycroft’s name. "He is very tired.”

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly. Then he said quietly, "I don’t know ... if this is real, then I must tell you something, John. But I do not know if you're really there. You ... it could be a trick. A trick to get the information. I ... cannot talk, you understand? "

He looked at John with a look so pained and anxious and lost that John's heart clenched again. And this time a new feeling was added. A feeling that was building very slowly and grew stronger the longer he looked at Sherlock.

Anger. Raging anger.

 _If they are not all dead_ , John thought cold, _then I will hunt and kill them. Oh yeah. I will. I swear by all that is sacred to me. I swear._

"I promise you that it's real," he said, squeezing Sherlock's hand gently. "We are at home. And I won’t leave you."

Sherlock gulped and closed his eyes, obviously exhausted. "But maybe you're just a dream, John. One ... of the many dreams I had. And ... I don’t want to wake up from it this time. If he is there again ... I don’t know how much more I can endure, John ...“

John could no longer restrain himself. He took his other hand and placed it on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock flinched beneath him, but didn’t try to get away from him, and so John let his hand stay there.

"Sherlock," he said softly, insistently. "Do you trust me?"

Sherlock weakly opened his eyes again and looked up at him. "Yes," he breathed. "I ... have entrusted you with my life."

 _Yes you have_ , John thought bitterly.

"Then trust me now," he said aloud. "This is not a dream and not a trick. Mycroft has saved you from that, and you're home now. At home with me. I'll take care of you and we will have our old life back, okay? Tea by the fireplace. Cases. Dinner at Angelo’s. Terrible Christmases with Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Just like before. Trust me. You don’t have to say anything right now, okay? We can talk later. About everything."

"Tea by the fireplace ..." Sherlock muttered visibly exhausted and John saw how sleep slowly overcame him again. "Mrs. Hudson ... Molly ...“

"Yes, Sherlock," John said softly and   put Sherlock’s hand back on top of the blanket. "Yes. We will all get together again, yeah? Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up. You'll be alright."

He stroked lightly over Sherlock's warm forehead.

"And I'll be okay," he added quietly.

He looked at Sherlock and listened to his regular and deep breathing.

"Everything will be fine," he said again into the silence of the room, while outside the rain drummed against the windowpane. He said it to Sherlock and he said it to himself. He even believed it himself, just a little, as he got up and, with a last look at Sherlock, left the room.

*

Sahra sat in the living room, going through some documents.

She looked up when John entered the room and raised her eyebrows.

"He's asleep now," John said softly and sat down in his old chair with a groan. For a short moment he stared into the crackling flames of the fireplace. Sara’s voice reached him a few seconds later like it came from a great distance.

"How are you, John?" She asked quietly and he tore his eyes off the mesmerizing dance of the flames, to look at her. He shrugged.

"How should I be," he said a little gruffly. "Sherlock ... is in his room and doesn’t know if he is in a dream or whether this is just a trick of the men who tortured and humiliated him daily!"

Sahra nodded thoughtfully, then she asked, "So he reacted to you?"

"Yes," John replied, looking down at his clasped hands. Anger filled him. So much anger towards the people who were capable of doing something like that to such a wonderful, intelligent and unique man.

"Yes. He responded to me. He let me touch him. "

"Really?" Sahra asked. She sounded surprised. "This is a great step forward, John."

John looked at her with raised eyebrows and she said urgently: "We must appreciate the tiniest progress, John. You have to realize that you both have a very long way ahead of you. Such a severe trauma doesn’t disappear in a few days or weeks. You need to prepare yourself for setbacks and disappointments as well as for achievements and progress."

"I know," John said softly. A lump formed in his throat. "But ... it's so damn hard to see him like this."

"I know," she said softly. "That is the hardest part. You must make it clear to yourself that he is no longer as he was. Before the events. But you are not alone, John. You and Sherlock have many people who can help you. "

John shook his head slightly. He chewed on his lip. "They don’t even know that Sherlock is alive," he said bitterly. "They believe he died there on the ground in front of the hospital ..."

"Then they must learn the truth," Sahra told him seriously. "Mycroft wanted to leave this to you. He thought you had a better connection to these people. "

"Oh yes," John said with a slight hint of amusement, "Yes, you could say so."

"For the others it will be just as hard to comprehend what has happened to Sherlock as it was for you," Sahra said quietly. "It will be a difficult time for everyone, John. But I am confident that we will succeed. "

She rose from her seat and handed him a small card. "My business card. I'll just go to my office. If something happens, do not hesitate to call me. Mycroft knows about the medications and everything else. "

"Okay," John said and took the card. "Thank you, Sahra."

She smiled at him encouragingly. "I know that currently everything looks very dark and hopeless, John. But it's getting better. I strongly believe that. Good luck."

John looked after her as she left the flat. Then he looked back into the flames and wondered who he should call first.

After a few minutes everything in John screamed for a drink.

Again.

The familiar call.

He fought it, but it was very difficult this time.

The lure, to numb his dark thoughts and the pain in his stomach that Sherlock’s appearance had triggered with alcohol, was great, so great ...

He was walking up and down the living room now, his hands clasped behind his back.

A little bit of Whiskey ... Or Scotch ... that would be good for him, yes. Just a little sip. Just one glass to numb the pain at least a little.

It would be quick. There was a shop just out the door ... Just a few steps.

John threw himself back in his chair and bit down on his fist hard. No. No, he could not get drunk if Sherlock was lying in his sickbed, needing his help, goddamn.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He wondered if Sherlock felt this way when he thought of cocaine ...

He felt miserable.

How, exactly, was he supposed to be able to help Sherlock?

He was weak ... So weak.

John buried his face in his hands.

All this misery...

Sherlock’s scared look came to his mind again. His fear, that he was only dreaming and would wake up again, only to be tortured once more. John hit himself over the head at the thought. Despair spread through him and burned in his throat just like the alcohol he longed for.

Where had he been when Sherlock was alone and desperate and full of pain?

Where had he been, as the whip had torn bloody wounds into Sherlock’s back?

Had he been drunk in a pub? Had he just woken up in a dirty apartment, with a whore next to him, her face smeared with old makeup and her wrinkles, betraying her true age?

Where had he been?

John pushed back the tears that rose in his eyes. He repressed the cursed urge for alcohol. Enough. He had to do something.

He decided to call Greg.

He had to start somewhere, and Greg was the one who was closest to Sherlock after he and Mycroft.

Greg could come and his presence would distract John from the alcohol. Yes.

He took out his cell phone and dialed the number of the inspector with slightly trembling fingers.

Greg answered with a voice that sounded slightly surprised, and John could not blame him. How often had he rejected the inspector when he wanted to bring John to a case or simply wanted to go out for a drink with him?

"John?"

"Hello, Greg," John said slowly. "I have to tell you something. It's about Sherlock. "

The fire threw dancing shadows on the walls, while John told a stunned Greg what had happened...


	6. Just One Drink

Gregory Lestrade could say with a clear conscience that nothing was able to shock him easily. Not after 20 years in the service. Not with at least 5 bestial killings a month. Not after all the heartbreaking and nerve-racking conversations he had led during his service, with victims, witnesses and relatives.

Earlier, yes, earlier, he had often been lying awake, after a case. Had chewed on his fingernails until he tasted blood, and stared into the darkness. His head filled with all these images. Blood and dead eyes and sorrow and agony ... Previously, he had often curtly sought out one of the police therapists because he just had to get rid of it somehow ...  
  
Earlier.  
  
But eventually, it had become part of the routine ... eventually, you did not let things get so close to you. At some point, you learned to keep your distance. At some point, you were ... well, he had distanced himself. Greg often described himself as hardened, compared to his younger comrades, who were all too often frightened when facing crime scenes.  
  
Still, sometimes even he was shocked and bewildered ...

There had been a case, just a few weeks ago. Two small children, who had been missing for days, had been found in a cellar. Completely starved, and half dead of thirst. The little frightened eyes laid deep in their caves and this ... God, the stench in that cellar! The smell of human evaporation and excrement and fear, fear, fear! So much fear ...  
  
The girls had been tied together with rope. It had been so tight on their tiny wrists that the skin had been torn to shreads. The rope was full of dried blood ... Greg remembered too well the whimpering of the two kids when they had been cut free ... weeks later, a shiver ran down his spine at the thought.  
  
They had spoken quietly and kindly to the two, but they had not been able to bring a word out of them. Even Donovan did not succeed. Donovan on her knees in the mud before these two emaciated figures - with tears in her eyes. He would not forget this picture for a long time ...  
The girls had remained silent. But there was enough evidence around them. Enough tracks to tell a long and terrible story. Rape and abuse and humiliation ... And so much fear ...

When the ambulance had finally taken the girls away, Greg had gone outside in the fresh air, and vomited into the street. Multiple times. Until no more than mere, burning, acidic bile had filled his mouth.

He had felt numb after that. Infinitely deaf and sore and empty.  
  
And this exact feeling of absolute shock, he remembered when he opened the car door with trembling hands, hesitantly got out, and stared at the door to 221B.  
This feeling of shock had also overtaken him when he heard John's incredible story ...  
Sherlock alive ...  
Tortured ...  
Badly ...  
  
Lord God in heaven ...  
  
_Maybe I'm only dreaming?_  
All this cannot possibly be true.  
John saw Sherlock jump.  
I saw the corpse.  
I saw the coffin.  
I have … made peace with it. More or less.  
So is it so improbable that I’m dreaming?  
  
From a kind of childish reflex, Greg pinched himself in the neck.  
He winced, as a short burning pain followed.

 _No._  
Of course not…  
  
_Of course, this is not a dream_ , Greg thought bitterly, climbing the few steps to the door.  
_Just as little as the case with the girls were a dream_ ... _It's just another bitter irony of life and another shock that may even send me back to therapy._  
  
With those gloomy thoughts, he rang the doorbell and breathed in deeply for the last time.  
  
Then, John Watson opened the door, and Greg Lestrade's world collapsed softly and imperceptibly.  
  
*

Long before Greg Lestrade rang at the door, John sat with Mycroft in the kitchen drinking coffee. Very strong coffee.  
  
The older Holmes looked better after a few hours of sleep, even if the sleep had been restless and much too short.  
At least the deep, dark circles under his eyes had disappeared.  
Besides, he had refreshed himself a bit and exchanged the dirty shirt for one of his perfectly fitting suits.  
  
While they were drinking their coffee, Mycroft talked John through the daily routine he had become accustomed to in the last few days.  
  
"It's best to give him chicken soup. He has always eaten it. Perhaps because Mother used to make it for him at every opportunity. She has sworn to it. It was her panacea," Mycroft said at some point between two sips of coffee and John nodded understandingly.  
  
"A little toast goes with it," continued Mycroft. "But sometimes, he cannot keep down anything solid."  
  
"All right," John said restlessly, clearing his throat. "Does he know, uhm, does he remember when ..."  
  
"When he has to go to the bathroom?"  
  
"Yes," John said, somewhat embarrassed.  
  
Mycroft frowned, and said, after another sip of coffee, „That depends on the particular mood of the day. Sometimes, he seems to work like a machine ... He tries to get up and follow his old habits. Of course, because of his weakened condition, he does not get it right. On one occasion, I was not with him. He tried to get up, fell on his injured arm, and tore the cannula out of his hand. After that, he fell into a kind of shock and drenched himself. It took hours to move him and get him clean."  
  
John blinked, shocked. "Goodness," he said hoarsely.  
  
"Yes," Mycroft replied curtly. "Since then, I have been paying attention, making sure that I notice it when he wakes up and has one of those days."  
  
"What about the other ... days?"  
  
"On the other days he wakes up and does not seem to know where he is. He simply remains lying in bed staring into space. When I talk to him, lead him and support him, he comes to the bathroom. But slowly. From there, you have to tell him exactly what he should do, then it works. However, he must not move too much. His feet are still very sensitive and because of the weight loss he has hardly any strength. And of course, you have to make sure that he is not in pain. He sleeps most of the time."  
  
"Okay ..." John said barely audibly. He looked down at the table. His stomach collapsed painfully, as he realized what would happen in the next few days.

Mycroft watched him carefully over his cup of coffee. "I think he will react very well to you," he said suddenly, calmly, and John raised his head in surprise.  
"Why do you think so?" He asked uncertainly. In Mycroft's eyes there was suddenly something like ... pity.  
"You are very important to him, John," he said softly. "Remember why Sherlock was gone these two years, and above all: for whom ..."  
John swallowed. He lowered his head. His face burned.  
  
Of course. Of course he knew how much he meant to Sherlock. But did Mycroft know how much Sherlock had meant to him - just before the fall?  
  
Did he know that John had often doubted his otherwise so secure heterosexuality since he had moved in with Sherlock? Did he know how often John had imagined kissing Sherlock and touching him? That these thoughts and fantasies had triggered something with him ... had excited him, and deeply touched him? Did he know that John had hit the wall of his bedroom with frustration, because he knew Sherlock would never show interest, because he was so obviously not interested in a relationship?  
Did Mycroft know this?  
  
Mycroft suddenly cleared his throat, and frightened John from his thoughts. "I think you know the medication and the infusions well already?"  
"Yes."  
"Good. If you need help, Sara can help you. She will come by and see Sherlock. Doctor Thompson, a surgeon, will soon be coming by and looking at Sherlock's feet, fingers, and ribs. I'll tell you about it. "  
"Okay."

John watched as Mycroft jerked up without a word, juggling his cup.  
He had just opened his mouth to ask where Mrs. Hudson was, and if Sherlock's parents knew anything about this misery, when the doorbell rang.  
Both men were easily frightened by the loud sound in the silent apartment.  
  
"That must be Greg," John said softly, and Mycroft nodded.  
"I'll leave you then. I have to stop by my office, "said the older Holmes, as John got up to open the door for the inspector. "I'll just see ... look in on Sherlock."  
"Of course," John said, watching as Mycroft went towards the stairs. Then he turned around, and went to the door.  
  
*

"You really do not look very good, John," Greg said, worried, as John opened the door.  
"I know," John replied with a forced smile. "Thanks for coming."  
"Sure," Greg said, and John let him in.  
  
When Greg hung up his coat, Mycroft came down the stairs again, looking as cool and secure as usual. A mask.  
But John knew what it looked like in Mycroft's heart ... Apparently he could not stand the sight of Sherlock any longer.  
  
Mycroft nodded at Greg as he walked past him. "Inspector."  
Greg reciprocated the nod, and was about to give a friendly answer, but Mycroft had already grabbed his umbrella, rushed out the door, and disappeared within seconds.  
  
"He does not have it easy," John said softly, as Greg looked at him in surprise and with a questioning look on his face. "He needs a break ..."  
Greg swallowed. "So it’s true?" He asked anxiously.  
"Yes."  
"Can I ... see him?"  
"Of course …"  
  
*

Greg stood in front of Sherlock's bed.  
He could not believe it.  
There he lay. Sherlock Holmes. Alive.  
But ... God in heaven, he looked completely wrecked.  
As if he had aged for a decade. And so thin ... So exhausted.  
  
"Jesus, John," Greg said hoarsely, and stroked his face. "I ... I've seen him already in a bad state, a few times to be honest, but that ... are those gray hairs?!”  
  
"Yes," John replied quietly. "That can happen ... with, um, very great mental stress ..."  
  
"Damn shit," cursed Greg in helpless rage. "These ... the guys who did that, are they ...?"  
  
"All dead."  
  
"Good," Greg said grimly, clenching his hands into fists. "Very good."  
  
"That does not change the state Sherlock is in," John said, and Greg heard the pain in his voice. "Who knows if he will ever recover from this."  
  
Greg swallowed. His throat was terribly dry. "Well, he's got us, right? We ... we'll get through it." This sounded more confident and courageous than he really felt ... In truth, he felt completely helpless and confused and infinitely empty.  
  
John gave him a sad smile. "Thank you, Greg."  
  
For a moment, they stood there in silence.  
The silence was only interrupted by Sherlock's even breaths, and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.  
  
Greg eventually cleared his throat.  
"If I can do anything ... you just have to say it, John. For real. I want to help."  
  
John nodded absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's closed eyes.  
"Thanks ... if you could take care of him from time to time ..."  
  
"Of course …"  
  
John hesitated. Then he said cautiously, "Maybe even now?"  
  
Greg looked at him, slightly surprised. "Sure ... you have to go somewhere?"  
  
"Yes ... I just wanted to get some things at the clinic. New cannulas, infusion bags, and stuff ... It won’t take long."  
  
"Ok," Greg said without hesitation, and John immediately felt a glimmer of deep guilt rising in him. He pushed it aside.  
After a last look at Sherlock, that inevitably caused a new stomach spasm, he thanked Greg again, said bye and left the apartment.

The sun set, and the birds in front of the window chirped their evening song.  
  
Greg sat next to Sherlock's bed, watching the chest of the younger man rise and fall evenly. The sight was strangely soothing ...  
  
He could still not quite grasp reality.  
He had just done his work, stoically, in the safe knowledge of never seeing Sherlock again.  
He had just been missing the detective at so many a crime scenes.  
Just, yet…  
  
And now, that was all ... it all had been a farce.  
  
While Donovan had always said that Sherlock’s suicide had been selfish and exaggerated, like everything about him. While Anderson had desperately developed theories that should prove that the detective was still alive. While Greg himself was constantly reproaching himself and looking helplessly at John, as he slowly broke. Sherlock had gone through hell for them all.  
Alone.  
He had been alone.  
  
Greg swallowed.  
  
Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to take Sherlock into his arms ... Apologize and comfort him ... But John had warned him not to touch Sherlock.  
  
Greg had always felt a kind of paternal responsibility for Sherlock, since he'd picked him up in a cursed alley, and taken him to a hospital ... Since Sherlock had rambled off his whole life story in the car, in less than five minutes, with a coughing hoarse voice. Ever since Greg had called him brilliant, and had asked him, stunned, whether he could do that at crime scenes as well. Since Sherlock had blinked at him in confusion, as if he had expected anything, just not praise or even a job offer.  
  
Greg watched Sherlock solve his first case in less than three minutes. How he seemed to be amazed with himself, and how everyone had looked at him with open mouths when he had found the murderer in record time. He'd seen Sherlock getting more and more self-assured over time, and finally, how he gave himself the title of Consulting Detective. Greg had always had to laugh, when Sherlock once again explained with a proudly swollen chest that he had created a whole new profession. And he knew, it was this job that had steered Sherlock slowly but surely away from the drugs. This job had made Sherlock realize he had a talent.  
  
These memories hurt, as he looked into Sherlock's sunken, exhausted face. Tears burned suddenly in Greg's eyes.  
  
He put his hand on the bed beside Sherlock’s, without touching him. He was desperately looking for a little contact.  
"I'm here, Sherlock," he said softly and insistently. "You're not alone anymore. You’ve got John and me and Mycroft. And Mrs. Hudson and Molly. We will fix this. I promise you."  
  
While it was slowly getting dark around him, Greg sat silently in the chair, and let the tears finally come – not trying to stop them.  
He cried for Sherlock, and for all the suffering. For all the loneliness and the pain. And for the fear.

*

John swallowed.  
His throat was dry. So dry.  
He needed something to drink.  
No. He did not need “something” - he needed _a_ _drink_.  
Only a small drink ...  
Only one.  
  
He ran down the street, while the street lights turned on around him, and the song of the birds fell silent.  
As young and old people walked past him, laughing and unconcerned. Not knowing the cruelty that John had witnessed. John envied them.  
  
He had lied to Greg.  
He did not want to get things at the hospital.  
He had to ... he wanted to get some fresh air.  
Had to get out. Get out of the apartment, the room, just get out.  
Clear his head.  
  
A drink ...  
  
All the pain crushed him ...  
It was too much in much too short a time. Too much shock. Too much reality to endure.  
How the hell was he supposed to care for Sherlock, if the mere sight of him almost tore him to pieces?  
  
_I'm not strong enough for this ..._  
I'm not ... I cannot ...  
I can’t do this  
  
A drink …  
  
John stopped in front of a Tesco, breathing heavily.  
  
_God ... just a drink ..._

Sherlock's face as he woke up, came back to John’s mind ...  
That fear in his eyes.  
This ...  
This sheer, naked, primal panic ...  
  
From John's throat came a suppressed whimper.  
He shook his head.  
He clenched his fists and relaxed them again.  
  
A drink ...  
  
He pushed open the door to the shop, and ran like hypnotized to the alcohol.  
He took a bottle of Scotch with a trembling hand.  
Clasped it like a life raft.  
  
The cashier smiled at him as he pressed the money into her hand.  
He did not smile back.  
  
As the alcohol ran down his dry throat, burning and glorious, John closed his eyes and hated himself.  
  
He hated himself for his weakness and he hated himself for his fear.  
  
But he was just a man.  
And people break.  
  
As he took sip after sip, the world around him slowly became a dull, quiet, warm mist,  
and it became clear to him,  
That there in the bed,  
in Bakerstreet,  
in the apartment,  
which no longer felt like home,  
lay his lost love.  
Lost.  
Forever.  
Forever unattainable.  
Now more than ever.  
  
Sherlock would never trust a man again.  
And least of all would he trust John Watson ...  
For he had not been there.  
He had not been with him.  
Not with him ...  
  
  
John began to cry, and the tears on his face burned stronger than the alcohol in his throat.


	7. Blue

Greg shifted uneasily on his chair, and stared out of the window into the darkness outside.  
  
It was getting late.  
And John hadn’t come back.  
  
Again and again, Greg looked at his watch and then uncertainly at Sherlock, who had been moving in his sleep restlessly for some time.  
Greg guessed that he was going to wake up soon.  
  
_Not good…_  
  
Greg had no idea what to do next.  
In addition, the fluid going to his IV seemed to be running out. It surely had to be changed. _Damn_ ... where was John?  
  
Greg swallowed, and took his phone out once again.  
He dialed John's number and listened to the monotonous beep that followed.  
And after a few seconds of waiting - the mechanic voice of the answering machine. Just like the last two hours.  
  
_"You have reached the automatic answering machine for number ..."_  
  
Unwillingly, Greg gave up and typed out a text.  
  
_John. Where are you? When …_  
  
He looked up as Sherlock groaned softly and turned to his side. The IV was stretched as far it could possibly go.

Greg felt helpless. An anger at John stirred in him, but his concern for him prevailed. What if something had happened to John? He couldn’t go look for him ...  
  
Sherlock groaned in his sleep again and Greg swallowed.  
_Damn it…_  
Who else could he call besides John?  
  
His gaze fell on the psychologist's business card, which lay on the nightstand. Should he call her? But it was late ... surely, she was no longer in her office.  
Mycroft ... He could call Mycroft. Greg hesitated. He remembered how exhausted Mycroft had looked earlier in the evening.  
But ... other than them, he had no one to call. He needed help ...  
He took a deep breath and, after a last look at Sherlock, dialed Mycroft's number.  
The elder Holmes answered quickly. Just after the second beep.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Uhm, hello, it’s Lestrade," Greg said hesitantly, tapping his fingers on his leg uneasily.  
  
"What is it, Inspector?"  
  
"John, uhm, has gone some time ago. He said he wanted to get some things from the hospital. But he hasn’t come back and ... well, Sherlock seems to wake up and the IV ... I have no idea what to do," Greg admitted weakly.  
  
A short silence at the other end. Then, "I will be there in a second. If he wakes up, you can talk to him. But don’t touch him. "  
  
Mycroft broke the line and Greg dropped the phone. He felt relief mixed with guilt. He leaned back and looked at Sherlock worriedly as he waited.

*

Greg opened the door for Mycroft, and stammered an apology that Mycroft waved aside.  
  
"Please inspector, you are not to blame for this situation. Is he awake?"  
  
"Uhm, he's going to wake up soon, I think," Greg replied hesitantly, and Mycroft nodded. He took off his coat and then went up the stairs without another word. Greg followed him after a moment's hesitation.  
  
Mycroft entered Sherlock's room quietly, and sat down on the chair where Greg had been sitting. He looked at his brother's face and sighed.  
He had mistaken the situation ... Apparently, John was overwhelmed by the circumstances. He noticed that the inspector was standing in the doorway and obviously didn’t know what to do.  
  
"Why don’t you go looking for John?", asked Mycroft and Greg nodded instantly, obviously relieved to have something to do.  
  
"Good idea ... I'll check the neighbourhood," he said, and Mycroft nodded approvingly.  
  
The inspector left, leaving a penetrating silence.  
  
For a moment, Mycroft was sitting there silently, scolding himself inwardly for his naivete. He had expected too much of John. Too much in a too short amount of time.  
  
He sighed and stood up. The IV drip was now empty. Mycroft removed the empty bag with practiced movements, and took a new one out of the bag containing the medical equipment.  
When he had finished, Sherlock was agitated and moaned softly. Then he opened his eyes and stared into the space. When Mycroft sat back on the chair, Sherlock looked at him, and Mycroft's stomach twitched as he saw the pain in his brother's eyes.  
  
"My," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "My ..."  
  
Mycroft reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's sweaty forehead. "Sherlock," he said softly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Do you feel any pain?"  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, as if he hadn’t understood. Then he jerked and groaned. "It hurts, My ..."  
  
"What's hurting, Sherlock?"  
  
"Back…"

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. After all, Sherlock understood him and could give him an answer. This was not always the case when he woke up. He had to take advantage of that.  
  
"Okay. I'll get you painkillers, all right? Do you think you can eat some soup for me?"  
  
Sherlock stared at him, frowning. "How ... they will not let me ..."  
  
Mycroft's stomach collapsed again. Maybe not a good day.  
"Sherlock," he said urgently. "Do you know where you are?"  
  
"Serbia ..." Sherlock whispered, staring straight ahead with a fearful look and shuddered.  
  
"No, you are not in Serbia. You're home in England, Sherlock - Here," Mycroft took Sherlock's right hand in his own and squeezed it. "You see? I am real. This room is real. You're safe. So, will you eat a little bit of soup? Please?"  
  
"No flu ..." Sherlock murmured, and Mycroft had to smile despite his inner pain.  
  
"No ... you do not have the flu. But you must eat something. You want to be a little stronger, right? So you can solve cases again ... "  
"Cases ... Lestrade ...," Sherlock whispered, frowning as if he was trying to think hard. "Lestrade ... was here as well."  
  
"Yes. He was here, Sherlock. And John, " Mycroft replied.  
  
"Mmh," Sherlock sighed, exhausted, opening his eyes again.  
He prepared to sit up and Mycroft guessed the intention behind it. Sherlock's body was further than his mind.  
He helped his brother to stand up, and quickly and precisely removed the tube from the cannula. Then he supported Sherlock as he got up and led him ~~in~~ to the bathroom.  
  
It was now routine, and yet every time incredibly painful. He didn’t know what was worse. The pain-filled whines every time Sherlock made a step with his right foot, which was still sore and delicate, or to feel how thin his brother was. So thin and fragile. So weak …  
  
In the bathroom, he held Sherlock with one arm while pulling down his pajama pants with the other, then letting him sink to the toilet seat. While he was waiting for Sherlock to finish, he wondered what John was doing. Most likely, the doctor was drunk. Oh how stupid it had been to hope that John would come and everything would get better immediately ... How naive.

With a numb feeling in his stomach, he led Sherlock back to his bed and connected him with the IV again. Then he helped Sherlock to drink a bit water through a straw. He shuddered when he remembered how it had been when he had tried that without a straw... The fear-widened eyes, the screaming and the flinches ... A chill went over him and he swallowed.  
"And?" He asked encouragingly as he set the glass aside. "How about a little soup now, Lock?"  
  
"Mmh. All right, "Sherlock murmured, eyes closed. "No mushrooms ..."  
  
"No. No mushrooms. I know how much you detest them," Mycroft said softly, with a dry throat. He stroked his brother's hair once more(,) and turned the violin music on again, before he went downstairs to the kitchen.  
  
While the soup boiled, Mycroft left a message on Sara’s answering machine. He described the events in detail and then asked her to come as soon as possible the next morning.  
Then, he sat down on the chair at the kitchen table and buried his face briefly in his hands.  
He felt numb. He felt hopeless. He had never felt so terrible in his life.  
  
Later, when he poured the soup into a bowl, he got a call from Lestrade.  
"Yes?" He asked, hearing Lestrade’s hasty voice.  
"I've found John. He sat on a bench in a park. He's pretty drunk ... "  
Mycroft’s fears were confirmed. "Bring him here, Inspector. He can sleep in his old room."  
"Yes. All right. I’ll be right there."  
The inspector hung up.  
  
Mycroft quietly finished preparing the soup, waited until it had cooled down a little, and then went back to Sherlock’s room.  
He woke his brother, who was once more dazed and looked at him, confused.  
"The soup, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him calmly. "Just one bowl, okay?"  
  
He helped his brother sit up and carefully clamped a pillow behind his bandaged back.  
Then, he sat down on the chair next to the bed and dipped the spoon into the soup. Sherlock automatically opened his mouth as Mycroft lifted the spoon and swallowed the soup with his eyes closed.  
  
Mycroft felt reminded of the past. Once, when he was eight, Sherlock had had such a severe flu that he had been too weak to move. Mycroft had also fed him with chicken soup back then. But in those days, Sherlock had protested defiantly and only opened his mouth with reluctance. Mycroft recalled how annoyed he had been, and how he had to fight with Sherlock.  
  
This time there was no protest. No fight. And it hurt.

When Sherlock had eaten half the bowl, he turned his head away and Mycroft sighed. "A little more, Sherlock. Please," he said hopefully, but Sherlock shook his head. "No more ..." he muttered tiredly and Mycroft set the plate aside. He wiped Sherlock's mouth with the napkin, and jumped when the doorbell rang downstairs.  
_That must be the inspector with John ..._  
  
He turned the music slightly louder and opened the window to let a little bit of air into the room. Then, he stroked Sherlock's hair. His brother seemed to be almost asleep again.  
"Good night, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly.  
Then he went downstairs to open the door.

*

Greg supported John, who was barely conscious.  
The inspector breathed heavily under the extra weight. John reeked of alcohol and sweat, muttering dull incomprehensible words.  
_What a pity_ , Mycroft thought dully when he looked at the doctor.  
  
Mycroft silently helped Greg bring the doctor into the apartment. They led John up to his old room, and laid him there on the bed after they had stripped off his coat and shoes.  
  
"Thank you inspector," said Mycroft and Greg nodded, exhausted.  
"How is Sherlock?" He asked softly.  
  
"He ate a little," Mycroft replied. "Now he is sleeping. You can go home."  
  
"Okay ... if you need any help - please do not hesitate to call me," said Greg with emphasis and Mycroft nodded.  
"Thanks Inspector. Good night …"  
  
"Good night."  
  
When Greg had left, Mycroft went back to Sherlock's room. He sat down on the chair and listened to the music as he looked at his sleeping brother.

Eventually, he dozed off and dreamed of better times ...

*

"I'm sorry," John whispered the next morning, hoarse and dazed, when Mycroft gave him a glass of water and an aspirin. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale. "God, I'm so sorry, Mycroft. Please believe me …"  
  
"No John," Mycroft said tightly. "It's really my fault. I expected too much of you. Sometimes I realize how little I understand people ... this time, I have completely underestimated the effect of the situation on you, I fear. Please forgive me …"  
  
John looked at him tiredly and shook his head slightly. "Sherlock ..." he whispered. "Sherlock needs me and I ... I'm useless ..."  
  
"No," said Mycroft. "You are not. You’re just afraid and confused at the moment. You need time. Rest here for a while. Sahra will come by and then we'll see how it goes."  
  
John looked at him dully and then nodded hesitantly. He emptied the glass, dropped back on the bed, and closed his eyes. "Sherlock ..." he whispered softly.  
  
Mycroft looked down at the doctor for a moment. Then he left the room and gently closed the door.

*

When Sahra came, both John and Sherlock were asleep.  
  
Mycroft handed her a coffee, and sat down opposite her at the table in the kitchen.  
She looked at him urgently and he avoided her gaze. Stirred  his coffee with a spoon.  
When she spoke, her voice sounded gentle and emphatic at the same time.  
"You know that this situation needs a solution?"  
  
"Yes," Mycroft replied, without looking away from his cup. "But a clinic is still not an option."  
  
"We could organize an outpatient care service."  
  
"Sherlock would not let anyone touch him."  
  
"You can’t do this alone, Mycroft ..."  
  
"I know."

They were silent for a moment. Mycroft listened to the soft violin music from Sherlock’s room and took a sip of his coffee.  
  
"What does 'Redbeard' mean?" Sahra suddenly asked quietly. "Sherlock muttered it more than once while I was here the last time."  
  
Mycroft looked at her and sighed.  
"Redbeard was the dog my brother had as a child ... he had a very close bond with him. Closer than to any human. Redbeard was hit by a car when Sherlock was ten years old. Sherlock saw it happen. The dog died in his arms. I think it still haunts him …”  
  
"A dog ..." Sahra said thoughtfully. "Interesting ... But, of course, it makes sense. And it would be worth a try ..."  
  
Mycroft looked at her questioningly. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"We could organize a therapy dog," Sahra said. "If he reacts badly to people, the company of an animal could perhaps get him out of his lethargy and make him more accessible to us. Especially in a trauma caused by humans, an animal can help a lot."  
  
Mycroft took a sip of coffee and let Sahra's words sink in. He nodded slowly, a little hope stirred in him. "We could try that ... costs would not be a problem. When can you have that organized?”  
"If I call now, certainly we could have one by this afternoon ..."

*

When the doorbell rang in the afternoon, Mycroft opened the door and let in Sahra and another woman, who led a large retriever into the house.  
  
"This is Elena," Sahra said, smiling. "She's a dog handler. And this darling here is called Blue."  
Mycroft patted the light-brown dog’s head, she sat remarkably quietly, wagging her tail, looking up at him with hazelnut-colored eyes.  
  
"She is fully trained," Elena explained, a slender woman with long brown hair, and smiled at him. "Specialized in severe trauma cases and autism."

"Wonderful," Mycroft said, pointing to the stairs. "Shall we?"  
  
"What about John?" Sahra asked.  
  
"He’s fast asleep. We should let him rest, I think," Mycroft replied, and Sahra nodded understandingly.  
“All right. Let’s see how Sherlock and Blue will get along ... "

 *

When they were standing in front of Sherlock's room, Elena said softly, "We do not say anything when we're inside. We let Blue lead, all right? She knows what to do."  
  
"All right," Mycroft replied, feeling a hint of hopeful excitement. He slowly opened the door and watched as Elena whispered something to Blue. The dog pointed her ears and walks instantly and purposefully to Sherlock's bed.  
  
Mycroft held his breath involuntarily as they followed the dog silently, watching the events. He saw from the door, that Sherlock was awake lying on his back, his open eyes fixed on the ceiling.  
  
Blue stopped in front of the bed and looked attentively at Sherlock. Then she laid her front paws slowly and gently on the bed and let out a soft whimper. She laid her head on the bedclothes and remained in that position.  
  
With a throbbing heart, Mycroft awaited Sherlock’s reaction. At first, nothing happened. His brother was still lying on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling.  
But then, after a few seconds of blue whining softly, Mycroft saw Sherlock blinking, then turning his head to the side to see the dog. He frowned and Mycroft held his breath again.  
  
_Please_ , he thought desperately. _Please let it work. Otherwise, I really don’t know what to do ..._  
  
Blue stayed in her position and looked at Sherlock with faithful eyes. And then, Mycroft watched as Sherlock extended his right hand uncertainly and slowly to the dog. He let his breath escape, and Sahra smiled beside him, relieved.  
  
Sherlock laid his hand gently on Blue’s head and the dog didn’t move as he ran his fingers slowly through the warm fur. Man and dog looked deeply into each other’s eyes.  
  
And then Mycroft felt a warm feeling in his chest. For the first time in a long time, hope rose in him as he saw the soft smile that slowly spread on Sherlock's tired face.


	8. Apples

John sat on his old bed and stared dully at the wall.  
He could hear quiet voices from downstairs, along with the clanging of dishes and the sound of flowing water. The noises of early morning ...  
  
John clenched his hands slowly into fists and relaxed them again.  
  
He felt numb.  
His head throbbed.  
He still felt a bit sick.  
  
But he felt even worse at the thought of Sherlock.  
Sherlock, who was lying helpless in his bed and needed his help. Sherlock, whom he had abandoned yesterday.  
John pressed his teeth together.  
Coward ... He was a fucking coward.  
What had gotten into him? To leave Greg alone with Sherlock? To get drunk somewhere on the street?  
What had he become?  
John hid his face in his hands.  
  
If only he could undo it ...  
  
In the next moment, there was a gentle knock on his door.  
John raised his head. "Yes," he said hoarsely. His throat was dry.  
The door slowly opened and Sahra looked at him, a faint smile on her face.  
"Hello John. We were wondering if you were hungry."  
"Oh. I’m not. No thanks," John muttered, conscious of the beginning blush on his face.  
  
_Coward._

"We would be really happy if you could join us downstairs,” Sahra said kindly. "Even if you don’t want to eat anything, a cup of tea will certainly do you good. And we can discuss the next steps. "  
  
_The next steps…_  
  
John swallowed.

 _That’s it now. They want to take Sherlock away from me … Obviously. I can’t care for him. And Mycroft can’t do all the work alone. So they’re going to take him to a clinic.  
I fucked it up._  
  
"All right," he said softly. "I am coming downstairs in a moment."  
"Good," Sahra replied cheerfully, and left. The door closed behind her.  
John stared after her, and his chest was aching.  
  
It was not a pleasant thought, to go down there and answer the questions that would surely be for him … And to hear their explanations, why it wasn’t good for Sherlock to stay here any longer …  
  
John didn’t want to hear them.  
But he couldn’t stay in his room forever.  
With a sigh, he stood up.  
  
*  
  
John smelled bacon and eggs, as he slowly walked down the stairs. He could do nothing to prevent his mouth from watering. He was indeed hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything for hours.  
When he hesitantly entered the kitchen, he stopped for a moment in surprise.  
The sight before him was almost surreal.  
  
Mycroft Holmes stood at the stove with his shirt sleeves rolled up, making scrambled eggs, while Sara and another woman were laying the table.  
When John could free himself from his frozen state, he hesitantly said, "Uhm, hello ..."  
Three heads turned toward him.  
The women smiled at him.

Mycroft eyed him from head to toe, then nodded in his direction, before turning back to the pan.  
John swallowed.  
Once more, redness rose to his face.  
_He must be angry with me. Disappointed ... He trusted me. And I left Sherlock alone ...  
_  
"John," Sahra said, tearing him from his thoughts. "Please sit down, please! Tea?"  
  
"Yes, yes. Thank you, "John replied, and sat down at the table. He looked at the other woman, whom he didn’t know, and frowned. "Uhm, I don’t think we know each other yet ..."  
  
"Elena," said the young woman kindly, handing him her hand. "I'm a dog handler."  
  
"I ... dog handler?" John asked, completely confused.  
  
"That is exactly what we want to talk to you about," Sahra said, placing a cup in front of him. "That and a lot of other things."  
  
*  
  
It was cold.  
So cold.  
It hurt to inhale the air. His lungs burned and his head thumped.  
He could have made a fire, but it was not safe.  
They were nearby.  
They were on his heels. Once again.  
And this time, they were far too close ...  
Sherlock coughed and hastily tried to muffle the sound with his scarf. He closed his eyes when a sharp pain passed through his chest and his neck seemed to be on fire.

A beginning pulmonary inflammation - perhaps.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t believe it.  
He was so close.  
So close to returning to London.  
Back to John.  
A few days ago, the sentiment had risen to warm him in the cold Serbian nights.  
And now he was trapped like a sitting duck.  
All because he didn’t do the job right.  
Because he had been careless.  
Stupid and inattentive.  
He had had to flee before it was done.  
And there was no time to cover his tracks ...  
  
_So cold…_  
  
Sherlock looked up into the sky.  
Stars littered the firmament.  
A full moon bathed the snow in its pale light.  
_John…_  
What was John doing right now?  
The thought of him increased the burning pain in his chest.  
Perhaps he would never see him again.  
And then John would not know ...  
Would never know ...

"There!"  
  
Sherlock froze.  
  
_No…_  
  
He could hear the loud sound of the call in the vicinity.  
He pressed himself to the ground and breathed as silently as possible.  
The thoughts rushed in his head.  
Should he run? Running was bad. Running was loud. And surely they had dogs ...  
  
"The bastard was here!”  
  
_Even closer ..._  
Sherlock closed his eyes. His heart beat fast and seemingly unbearably loud in his chest.  
He became aware that he was afraid. It was pure panic.  
A decision ... he had to make a decision now ...  
Behind him, he suddenly heard a rustle. Heavy steps. And then, excited howls and barks from several dog throats. Sherlock froze.  
  
"There!"  
  
In the next second, Sherlock pushed himself off the ground and ran.  
Barking. Screaming. Then shots ... dazzling lights that lit up the night sky.  
Sherlock ran through the snow.  
His lungs burned like fire. He gasped heavily.

Fear and despair came over him as he realized, he wouldn’t make it.  
  
They were everywhere.  
They circled in on him.  
And they obviously wanted him alive.  
  
When his strength finally left him, and he sank to his knees, noise and glaring light and chaos around him, only one thought came to the surface through the fear.  
  
_I'm sorry, John.  
Please forgive me ..._  
  
*  
  
Sherlock woke up with a gasp. The air was pushed out of him as a sharp pain drove through his back.  
He whimpered, tormented, and fell back onto ... pillows.  
Pillows. A bed. Warm and soft. Not cold, hard snow.  
   
Confused, Sherlock turned his head slowly to the right and to the left.  
  
No men. No screams and shots... It was bright. There was no black backdrop full of stars. No noise.  
Instead, quietly playing violin music and ...  
A whimper beside his bed.  
Suddenly, a warm breath on his hand.  
Sherlock turned his head irritatedly in that direction, and looked into big, brown dog eyes.  
  
_Oh…_

Slowly, a memory dawned.  
This wasn’t Serbia.  
London.  
Not Serbia.  
He was in London and he was … safe.  
It was over.  
Just a ... a nightmare.  
Yes, he remembered now.  
  
Mycroft had been here. He had ... given him soup. Chicken soup. Like in the past.  
_When I had the flu …_  
And there was this dog … this dog had suddenly been there.  
_Blue_ , Mycroft had said. At some point, with his soothing hand on Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. _This is Blue._  
Sherlock breathed in shakily. The dog whimpered again.  
Blue. She was called Blue.  
Sherlock carefully moved his hand and put it on Blue’s muzzle. Warm. Her warm breath on his skin. Soothing.  
"Hello, Blue," Sherlock whispered, and the dog raised an ear at the sound of her name.  
Sherlock smiled involuntarily.  
  
She reminded him of Redbeard.  
He felt his heartbeat calm down and the throbbing in his ears disappeared.  
London…  
At home.

Blue did not stop whining. She licked softly over his fingers with her tongue.  
  
_So warm ..._  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly.  
And then, as he calmed down more and more, he slowly became aware of his body.  
He suddenly realized that he was sticky.  
His pants clung to him, warm and wet, and ... Oh.  
Sherlock froze and shuddered.  
  
_No. No, no_ ... it had happened again. He pressed his eyes tightly together as a mixture of shock, shame, and fear came over him.  
A sob made its way out of his half-open mouth.  
Blue looked at him for another second, then she got up and ran away, through the half-open door. Disappeared.  
  
Sherlock felt even more miserable without the warmth of her muzzle on his hand.  
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and tried to push the tears away that started to rise in his eyes. He didn’t succeed.  
  
*  
  
"A therapy dog," John said slowly. "That's great. Exactly what Sherlock needs. "

_They’re not going to take him away from me?_

He felt relieved. _  
_  
"Yes," Sahra confirmed, taking a sip of tea. "He really did react very well to her."  
  
"Mh," John said, staring at his empty plate. He still felt miserable. And he had the feeling that Sara was looking straight through him ...  
He wanted to apologize ... For what happened.  
  
"I need to," he said uncertainly, but Sahra raised her hand and he fell silent.

"I know what you want to say," she said quietly. "It's okay. This has shown us all - and yourself - that you have not yet processed everything that’s happened. You were still in the mourning phase when Sherlock returned. You couldn’t really complete that phase. That is why you are now confused and must somehow find a way to cope."  
  
John looked at her, speechless. She was right. With every single word. Everything was perfectly plausible. She continued to speak after an encouraging smile.  
"We'll wait a few days for Blue and Sherlock to get used to each other and build a stronger bond. Then we start the therapy. We're going slowly. Step by step. And after some time, we can slowly include the other people that are close to Sherlock. Molly, Mrs. Hudson and his parents."  
  
Mycroft looked briefly up from his toast at the mention of his name, and John saw the fatigue in the eyes of the older Holmes. Again, he felt guilt, and swallowed.  
  
"We must also find a way for you to process your grief, the shock, and the desire for alcohol. And we will," the therapist concluded, and John nodded.  
"Yes," he said slowly. "I think you're right. About everything."  
  
"You can’t help Sherlock before you've helped yourself," Sahra said seriously, after another sip of tea. "The relatives are often paid too little attention in these situations. We will not make that mistake."  
  
After her words there was silence for a moment, as everyone followed their own thoughts.  
John felt much better already.  
Just as he took his cup in his hand, suddenly the padding of paws approached.  
  
"Blue," Elena said, standing up. "What are you doing here, darling?"  
  
John raised his head in amazement and saw a big, pretty retriever dog, who ran to Elena and sat in front of her. She lifted a paw and scratched Elena's trouser leg.  
  
"What is she doing?" John asked, frowning.  
  
"I guess it’s something with Sherlock," Elena said worried. "Maybe he has a flashback or something like that, something Blue could not help him out of."

Mycroft immediately pushed his plate away and began to stand up.  
Before he could, John lifted a hand.  
"I'll do it. I'll go see what he needs," he said quickly.  
  
_It’s time to finally do the right thing ...  
  
_ Mycroft looked at him briefly and then nodded. "All right." He dropped back to his chair.  
  
"You should go to him alone and see how he reacts. Call if you need help," Sahra said, and John nodded.  
He got up, and walked quickly to Sherlock's room.  
Blue was right behind him.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock's eyes were tightly compressed and he breathed too quickly. Tears burned on his cheeks.  
Panic had gripped him, and made his heart beat faster and faster.  
Memories tormented him again ...  
The cellar where he had been locked up ... Without windows, without fresh air - and without a possibility to relieve himself.  
At first he had kept it in until his kidneys had burned like fire. But after some time, it hadn’t been possible anymore.  
  
He had never felt so miserable and filthy in his life as at that moment.  
And now all those feelings were back.  
  
He whimpered again, and suddenly the warm breath on his hand came back.

Sherlock instinctively turned his head in the direction. But he could not open his eyes. It was as if something were pushing down his eyelids, something ...  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
John.  
That was John's voice.  
Sherlock took a sharp breath and began to tremble all over.  
_John…  
Help me John ...  
_  
"Hey," John's voice said, closer. "Can you hear me, Sherlock? It's me, John."  
  
Sherlock tried to open his eyes again. This time he managed to do it. He blinked in the bright light and there he was. John. John stood by his bed, looking down at him.  
  
"John ..." Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "John."  
  
"Yes. I'm here. What's the matter, Sherlock? Are you in pain?"  
  
Sherlock tried to shake his head but only managed to roll it to the right.  
He wanted to tell John what had happened.  
But he couldn’t find the words.  
  
"John ..." he whispered again instead, squeezing his eyes shut, frustrated.  
  
"All right," John said again, gently, and then John's hands suddenly lifted the blanket. They removed it from him.  
"Okay," John said softly. "OK. It it’s all right. Can you stand up? Go to the bathroom with me?"  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again to find the right words.  
_Stupid ... so stupid  
_ "I think ... I ... yes," he murmured.  
  
"OK. Open your eyes now, okay? It's all right."  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John's face. What he saw there almost took his breath away. Concern. So much concern. And grief. And pain. Especially pain. Why pain? Was John hurt?  
"John ..." he murmured confused. "What…"  
  
John smiled sadly at him.  
"It will be all right," he said softly. "I'm here now. And I'll stay."

*

John supported most of Sherlock’s weight as they slowly walked to the bathroom.  
He felt Sherlock wince at every step and heard him whimper. It hurt John's soul.  
Just like Sherlock's desperate despair, when he'd tried to make John understand what was going on.  
And like Sherlock’s repeated murmuring of, “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” while they were walking.  
  
In the past, John had treated many adult patients who were wetting the bed from time to time. They were all desperate and horrified and full of shame. Disoriented and confused.  
They had behaved exactly the same way Sherlock did.  
In the bathroom, John thought briefly about what to do now.  
Sherlock still had bandages all over his body. He could hardly put him into the bath. But he also couldn’t stand upright in the shower with the pain in his feet.  
  
John came up with an idea. For the moment, he put down the toilet cover and directed Sherlock gently to sit down on it. He leaned Sherlock cautiously against the wall, then said urgently, "I have to get something, okay? Can you wait for me?"

Sherlock looked at him with confused eyes, but then he nodded hesitantly, and John was relieved. Sherlock was in a much more alert state than the last days.  
Blue had come after them, and sat down next to Sherlock, who was looking at her with a half smile on his face, and put a hand on the dog's head.  
"Good dog," John said honestly to Blue, then quickly left the bathroom.  
  
He went back to Sherlock's room and met Sahra on the way. "All right?" She asked softly, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Yes ... we’re okay," John replied. He wanted to do this alone. "He has wet the bed. I can handle this.”  
  
"Okay," said Sahra. "Call if you need help." After John's nod, she went back to the kitchen.  
  
John picked up the chair in Sherlock's room and went back to the bathroom.  
  
Sherlock was still absentmindedly stroking Blue’s head.  
  
John put the chair in the shower, and was relieved that it fit so easily.  
Then he went back to Sherlock and held out both hands.  
"Come on, Sherlock," he said cautiously. "Can you stand up for me? We have to get you out of these things, okay? "  
  
Sherlock looked up at John and then at his outstretched hands. He nodded hesitantly, allowing John to grab him under his arms. Then he pulled himself to his feet with John’s help and drew in a breath sharply. His face became distorted.  
  
John swallowed, and led Sherlock carefully to the chair in the shower. Before he let Sherlock sink down on it, he pulled his sweaty shirt off of him.  
Sherlock let him do it.  
  
John tossed the shirt aside and then hesitated briefly before carefully pulling Sherlock's pants down.  
  
He swallowed and tried to push aside all his nervousness.

Absent and almost automatically, Sherlock slipped out of his trouser legs and wobbled dangerously back and forth. John held him with one arm, and threw the wet pants aside. Then he let Sherlock sink slowly on to the chair in the shower.  
  
He let his gaze wander over Sherlock's thin body. Once again, he was horrified when he saw how thin Sherlock was. He could count each rib individually. The skin was smeared with bruises in different healing stages. Here and there he saw long, narrow scars, and especially on his chest, smaller wounds, which looked like burn marks. Anger and hatred stirred somewhere deep within him. He quickly pushed the feelings aside. Not now.

He was a doctor.  
He could dissociate himself ... from all of this.  
He could do that.  
He could at least try.  
  
Bandages covered most of Sherlock's back. There was no way water could get there, John knew. Just as on his hands. But the legs and feet were no longer a problem. Fortunately.  
  
"I ... I'll wash you now, okay? You can say if it's too cold or hot. And ... can you hold up your hands for me? "John asked hesitantly.  
  
Sherlock looked up at him and frowned. John wondered if he'd understood him, when Sherlock slowly raised his hands in the air and leaned against the wall.  
  
"Good," said John, relieved. "Very good, Sherlock. So ... I, uhm, will start then, yeah?"  
John quickly stripped down to his boxer shorts, and knelt beside Sherlock in the shower. Then he took the shower head and went to work after another breath.  
  
Sherlock remained calm during the procedure. As long as John cautiously sprayed him with the lukewarm water stream. But as he rubbed his hands with bodywash and put them on Sherlock’s legs, he flinched and tensed.  
  
John raised his head and looked into Sherlock's wide open eyes. Fear and something pleading were in them. John swallowed.  
"Hey," he said as calmly as he could, and smiled gently, hopeful, although he felt more like crying. "It’s just me, yeah? I won’t hurt you, okay?"

Sherlock looked down at him and then nodded hesitantly to John's relief.  
"John ..." he whispered softly. It sounded as if to convince himself that it was John who touched him.  
  
"Yeah," John said, continuing cautiously. "It's me. No reason to worry."  
  
His voice seemed to soothe Sherlock, for the tension in his muscles dissolved and he breathed more calmly. So John kept talking. He talked to himself, without realizing what he was saying. Most of the time it was good promises and cheerful explanations of what he would do next.  
  
Sherlock just twitched once more, as John washed him as carefully as he could in his more intimate area. But when John reassuringly touched his knee, he calmed down again.  
  
Blue remained all the while, sitting quietly in front of the shower cubicle, watching them.  
A calm, attentive guardian.  
  
When John had finished, he turned the water off and stood with a groan, a dull pain in his knees.  
Sherlock suddenly said softly, "Apple."  
  
"What?" John asked, looking down at Sherlock.  
  
"Apple ... shampoo," Sherlock said calmly, pointing a shaking finger at John's shampoo that was on the floor of the shower. It was an apple scented shampoo. John’s, that he has used since he was a student.  
John frowned. Perhaps Mycroft had washed Sherlock’s hair with it. His guess seemed to be confirmed when Sherlock slowly let his head fall back and closed his eyes as if he was waiting.  
  
"Okay," John said softly. He took the shower spray back in his hand and turned on the water. Carefully, to get as little water as possible on the bandages on Sherlock's back, he washed Sherlock's hair, and instinctively put a hand on Sherlock's forehead to prevent him from getting something in his eyes. Sherlock remained perfectly still, his eyes closed.

After a while, John took the shampoo, and put a small amount of it into his hands. "Keep your eyes closed, okay? So nothing will get in your eyes, "he said softly, waiting to see Sherlock nod.  
  
He began to rub the shampoo into Sherlock's hair. The activity was soothing and hypnotic in a strange way. He felt Sherlock become more and more relaxed the longer he massaged his scalp. So John took his time with it. Then he washed out the shampoo, and when he stopped the water stream, Sherlock opened his eyes and put his head forward again. The water dripped onto his legs and John quickly took a towel. He rubbed Sherlock dry as best as he could.  
"So," he said quietly, brushing Sherlock's damp hair. "Do you feel better?"  
  
Sherlock looked up at him and then nodded slightly.  
John smiled at him, and reached out to help him out of the shower. He once again let him sink to the toilet seat.  
"I bought it ..." Sherlock suddenly said softly.  
  
"What?" John asked, surprised and uncomprehending.  
  
"The apple shampoo ..." Sherlock replied, barely audible and strained. "In Serbia. Apple. When I was alone. "  
  
"Oh," John said, now understanding. He swallowed hard.  
  
Sherlock said nothing else. He stared at his feet.  
  
It was the longest coherent conversation that they had led since Sherlock's return, John noted. He felt cold inside.  
He went to the closet with a hollow feeling in his stomach, and with trembling movements pulled out one of Sherlock's dressing gowns.  
  
_When I was alone ..._  
  
Sherlock had bought John's favorite shampoo when he was alone.  
The thought made John infinitely sad ...

*  
  
When John led Sherlock back to his room, he was surprised that the bed had already been made fresh, and that the room had been aired.  
Mycroft. Probably.  
Sherlock gasped loudly at his side and seemed to be more than exhausted. He leaned heavily on John and held his head down.  
John hurried to put him back to bed and put his IV back.  
When he had covered Sherlock with the blanket, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at him.  
"Thank you John," he said softly.  
  
John swallowed. "You’re welcome, Sherlock."  
_I will never leave you alone again_ , he added quietly in his head.  
  
He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, and Blue took her place again beside the bed. She laid her muzzle on the bedclothes and John saw Sherlock instinctively put his hand beside it.  
  
John felt numb.  
He could not get rid of this picture anymore ...  
This image of Sherlock, washing himself with John's favorite shampoo, alone, somewhere in a filthy descent in Serbia.  
  
_Apple.  
_  
To have at least a little memory of John, in his loneliness.  
A little memory from home.  
  
A little bit of familiarity in a foreign land.


	9. Reality

_It's one of those days.  
  
One of those days where __the mood at home is oppressive and disastrous.  
  
Catastrophe creeping in the atmosphere. Slow and unstoppable.  
  
Soon, a small spark will suffice to trigger an inferno._ _  
  
Maybe it will be a door that's closed too loudly.  
  
Or a spilled glass of water.  
  
Or a wrong glance.  
  
Or a word.  
  
Anything.  
  
John doesn’t wait for the spark.  
  
He takes one look into the glassy, bloodshot eyes of his father and the beer bottle in his hand - and escapes.  
  
Harry looks after him as he hurries to the door. A strange expression lies on her face. He avoids her gaze and flees.   
  
It's almost dark outside.  
  
And cold.  
  
John's breath forms clouds in front of his face.  
  
He shudders and pulls up his shoulders.  
  
He walks through the streets aimlessly.  
  
Sometimes, he sees another family through a window and wonders if these other families live a normal life.  
  
Sometimes he dreams of his future family. His imagination is only vague, but he is sure that he will have a family. And he knows _ he _will not be drunk every other day. He will not threaten to throw his daughter out_ _when she confesses to him that she loves a girl - not a boy. He will not squeeze his son’s arm until it bruises because he has brought home_ _a bad mark in mathematics. He will not.  
He will not be like his father.  
  
The contempt that John feels at this moment is still mixed with childish remorse and natural love for his father.  
  
But the thought is burning clear in his head.  
He won’t ever be like his father. _

_No.  
Not him.  
  
Never. _

*

The air in Sherlock's room was warm and heavy when John awoke from a short, unsatisfactory nap.  
  
He found himself in his chair, his upper body on Sherlock's bed.  
  
He straightened too fast and groaned as his back cracked audibly.  
  
Sherlock stirred lightly in his sleep. His mouth was slightly open and John could hear him breathing.  
  
He stretched and licked his dry, cracked lips. He grimaced as he noticed the unpleasant taste in his mouth and stood up to open the window.  
  
Outside, a light drizzle fell.  
  
It was the fourth day of John's withdrawal. He had not drank a single drop of alcohol for four days now. And the symptoms had already become apparent. He was sweating more than usual. He sometimes trembled uncontrollably. His sleep was disturbed by confused interruptions, in which he lost his bearings or squirmed with convulsions. He was restless. And sometimes he thought he couldn’t do it anymore. But there was always the sight of Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock, still so helpless and weak ...  
  
And John pulled himself together. For he was now responsible for Sherlock.  
  
Since he had begun his withdrawal, he had locked himself in the room with Sherlock. When he had to leave for the bathroom, he sent a text message to Greg, who had temporarily moved into Mrs. Hudson's rooms. Sometimes he caught himself standing at the door and pushing the latch down senselessly. The need for a little alcohol was so strong ... But he would make it through this. For Sherlock and for himself.  
  
"Why are you drinking, John?" Sahra had asked him at their first real conversation.  
  
John had not had to think about his answer long. "Because it makes me forget how weak I am," he had replied. And then he remembered his father. Those expressionless eyes, the dull gaze. The beer bottle in a cramped hand full of steeping veins. And he was ashamed.  
  
_Did you drink_ _to forget how weak you are?_ He had asked the imaginary picture of his father in silence. _Did you drink_ _because you were alone, and because everything was too much, and because a little forgetting was so tempting that you were willing to lose yourself?_  
  
Sahra had been patient with him. It was pleasant to talk to her.  
  
"When the detoxification is over," she had said, "it will be easier."  
  
He believed her. He really did.  
  
But there was always the thought of Sherlock in the background.  
  
And that was the spark, which constantly threatened to rekindle the bottomless hopelessness in him ...

*

When Sherlock woke up, John was next to him.  
  
_He does not look good ... He looks ... incredibly exhausted. He is exhausted.  
Why.  
Oh. Because of me …  
_  
"Hey," John said, smiling sligthly. The smile did not quite reach his tired eyes. "How do you feel?"  
  
Sherlock swallowed. His throat was dry. He looked at the water bottle on the night table. John followed his gaze and nodded. But he did not reach for the bottle. Instead, he looked at Sherlock again and tilted his head. "OK. Hmm. You do not need the IV anymore, so we have to get more fluid into you from now on. We ... we're going to continue with what Sahra told me," he explained slowly. "She thinks you should get used to articulating your needs. Can you ... can you tell me what you want?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  
  
_A trap. Of course. This was a trap.  
John was a hallucination. If he would admit now that he wanted water, the illusion would dissolve and he would look into the grinning face of HIM._  
  
He shuddered.  
  
He could not lay himself open like this. Not now.  
  
He looked away hastily.  
  
John sighed.  
  
"Sherlock ... Do we really have to repeat this from yesterday? I'm here. You're in London. At home. It's all right." His voice rose a little at the end, and Sherlock sank marginally deeper into the pillows.  
  
Instantly, John looked very distraught and said hastily, "I'm not ... I’m not angry with you, ok? It's just ... I have to ... " He ran a hand across his pale face and Sherlock was shocked to see that there were tears in John's eyes. His hallucinations had never cried ... Or stammered.  
  
_Maybe ... Maybe this is real._  
  
_If it is real, then John is really exhausted and sad._  
  
_I want John to be happy.  
_  
Sherlock swallowed. Then he opened his mouth. And closed it again. It was ridiculously difficult to formulate words ... When he finally brought them out, they were hardly audible. "Water, please."  
  
John looked at him and a small smile appeared on his face. "Good. Very good. Here."  
  
He grabbed the bottle and handed it to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock hesitantly reached out for it.  
  
_What if it's indeed a trap. HE will pour the water on the ground before your eyes. Like he did the last time. And HE will laugh, laugh, laugh_ ...  
  
But when his fingers touched the bottle, it was THERE and he could take it from John's hand without any trouble.  
  
For a moment, Sherlock felt both relieved and frightened. He looked at John, who pulled his hand back and smiled at him.  
  
Then he looked at the bottle and swallowed when he felt how thirsty he was.  
  
He put his fingers around the lid - and looked at John again. Quizzically.  
  
John nodded. "It's Allright. You can open it, okay? You do not have to ... you do not have to wait for permission."  
  
Sherlock opened the bottle. He raised it. Then he paused. Shook his head. "I ... I can’t," he said softly, still barely audible. And for a moment, he closed his eyes as memories slowly crept into his consciousness.  
  
_Water ... Everywhere ice cold, dark water._  
  
_Fire in his lungs.  
  
The feeling of drowning.  
  
Of dying._

 _And an absurd descent of gratitude ...  
_  
He shuddered. When he opened his eyes again, John's hand was in his field of vision, holding a straw. "Sorry," John said softly. "I had forgotten."  
  
Sherlock took the straw. It was red. Red like blood on a white tile wall ... - and put it quickly into the bottle. Then he drank. He drank almost half of the bottle. Slow but steady. It was relieving. And suddenly a strong feeling of pride and relief permeated him. He could not quite classify it. But it was there. And it was good. In contrast to the other feelings that seemed to be his constant companions.  
  
John looked at him for a moment.  
  
Then he said, "Sahra will drop by this afternoon. Do you think you can talk to her? She will have Blue with her. "  
  
_Blue. Blue was the dog. He liked Blue._  
  
_Sahra_ was more difficult to classify. But as he concentrated, he saw a young woman with a warm smile in front of his eyes.  
  
No threat.  
  
Therapist. She was a therapist.  
  
He nodded hesitantly and John smiled again. Wider this time. Sherlock liked the smile. He wished he could store it and put it in his mind palace. _But that was not a good idea. Not now._  
  
"Good. I'd like to take a look at your feet. Is that okay?"  
  
"Okay," Sherlock muttered, giving John the water bottle back.  
  
"Hmm. Would you like the window to be open or closed?" John asked.  
  
_He's ... it's still a test. A test I am supposed to pass._  
  
Sherlock looked at the window and frowned.  
  
John looked back at him expectantly.  
  
_Control.  
  
This is about control.  
  
I ... I can now control what happens.  
  
Can I?_  
  
"Closed," he said, shrugging nervously.  
  
John nodded and went to the window. Closed it.  
  
Sherlock exhaled.  
  
He watched as John took his bag – _his doctor's bag. He always took it to work. Is he working now_ _?_ – placed it on his chair and searched in it. He pulled out a pair of scissors, bandages and plasters. John moved slowly. As if the movements were painful.  
  
Sherlock swallowed. "Are you allright, John?"  
  
He saw John flinching slightly. He looked at him with a small smile. It seemed a bit forced. "Yes. Yes I am. Do not worry about me, okay? "  
  
"Hmm."  
  
_He is not fine._

 _Why ... why is he not doing well.  
  
In the past I  ... I would have known.  
_  
John put his bag back on the ground, took the chair, and carried it along to the bedside. He sat down with a slight groan. Then he looked at Sherlock again. "I'll touch you now. Is that okay?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said.  
  
John nodded and swallowed. He focused his eyes on Sherlock's feet and breathed in deeply. Then he began to work. He carefully cut off the old bandages. Sherlock understood that he was now in _John-the-Doctor_ mode. And John the doctor was skillful. Attentive. And calm.  
  
When John had removed the bandages, he stared at Sherlock's soles with a strange expression in his eyes. He swallowed hard. "Looks ... it looks good. The wounds heal well," he said softly. He looked at Sherlock. "Does anything feel wrong? Does it burn or throb? "  
  
"No," Sherlock said.  
  
It only hurt when he walked. The memory of how it had happened always came with the pain. It had been a knife. A short, sharp knife. _Good for fine work, HE had said. With a smile on his face_.  
  
Sherlock shuddered. His breath grew faster.  
  
"Are you allright?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock just nodded.  
  
He felt John rebandaging his feet.  
  
Again, he was very careful. So, so careful.  
  
_It's real_ , he suddenly thought _. It’s actually real. When can I finally believe it? Will I ever be able to believe it?_  
  
He did not know the answer to that question.

*

A few hours later, John was sitting on his chair, his hands clenched in his lap. He looked anxiously at Sherlock, who squeezed his eyes tightly shut and breathed too fast, while his hand was on Blues head. The dog was remarkably quiet again. She did not move a bit.  
  
Sahra was talking to Sherlock, but her eyes were a bit worried.  
  
"Sherlock, try to get rid of your fear. Focus on Blue. She is there. You feel her, right? "  
  
Sherlock nodded jerkily. But he began to breathe even faster.  
  
"Blue is real, Sherlock. The fear you feel isn’t. It is only a feeling triggered by my mention of Serbia."  
  
Sherlock winced and groaned.  
  
John was about to jump up. But an adjuring glance from Sahra stopped him. He dug his fingernails into his own flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction from the burning anxiety he felt. From the need to go to Sherlock and hold him. Shield him against any threat ...  
  
"We're all here. Me, John and Blue. _This_ is reality. The images you see are just memories. They can’t do anything to you, Sherlock. They exist only in your memory. Open your eyes and look around, " Sahra said calmly and evenly.  
  
John watched how Sherlock threw his head back and forth and his stomach cramped at the sight.  
  
"Open your eyes," Sahra said again. "Convince yourself that this is reality."  
  
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sherlock opened his eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, but he opened them. Hastily his eyes flitted across the room. From Blue to Sahra, to John. They lingered shortly on John. Then he looked at Blue again, who glanced at him attentively and licked his hand gently. Sherlock smiled weakly. Instinctively, he stroked Blue’s head. Fixed on her.  
  
"Good," Sahra said. "This is very good. Focus on Blue. Do you feel her warmth? "  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said softly, breathing more slowly. Smoothly.  
  
"Do you think she's a hallucination?"  
  
John almost stopped breathing as he waited for Sherlock's reply.  
  
When a quiet "no" came back, he sank more deeply into his chair and exhaled in relief.  
  
"Where are you?" Sahra went on, scribbling something on her pad, which lay beside her on the night table.  
  
"In London. I am in London."  
  
"Yes. London. What is your mother's name? "  
  
John looked puzzled at the seemingly unrelated question, but he saw Sherlock's concentration deepen. He thought for a moment, then said much more quietly and more deliberately, "Violet. Her name is Violet. "  
  
"Good. Where are you now?"  
  
"London." Sherlock's voice sounded safer now.  
  
John thought for a moment that he would start crying with joy and relief.  
  
Sherlock patted Blue’s head and breathed, completely calm.  
  
Sahra gave him a moment. Then she said softly, "Why are you hurt, Sherlock? What happened?"  
  
John swallowed hard. He almost expected a new panic attack. He did not know if he could take the frightened expression in Sherlock's eyes again.

But Sherlock surprised him. He ran his fingers through the dense fur between Blue’s ears and the dog leaned comfortably into his touch. "I was ... in Serbia. I was finishing the last job. I was caught. And tortured," he said slowly. There was a strange expression in his eyes. "Serbia. It was in Serbia. Mycroft has ... he was there and shot HIM." He exhaled shivering.  
  
"Good," Sahra said, putting her pen away. "That's enough. That was very, very good, Sherlock. As a conclusion, I just want to hear a decision from you, ok? Would you like Blue to stay with you for a moment, or should she go down with me and John?"  
  
Sherlock looked from her to Blue, who wagged her tail gently.  
  
His eyes were warm, soft. "I want her to stay here," he muttered, barely audible, and smiled. John's throat tightened at the sight. But this time it was not just pain that filled him. This time, there was also hope.  
  
"Allright," Sahra said, nodding at John. "We'll go down, okay?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock replied softly, scratching Blue's head evenly.  
  
John and Sahra left the room and went to the kitchen, where Greg had made tea and looked at them attentively.  
  
"How did it go?" He asked.  
  
"I’m already seeing small progress," Sahra replied calmly and with a warm smile. "We are on the right path. But we must not push him too much. Step by step. This is important now." She turned to John. "How is the detox coming along?"  
  
John cleared his throat nervously. "Good," he said. "I think it's going well."  
  
Sahra nodded and pointed to the kitchen table. "Let us speak briefly. I'm sure Sherlock will not blame us if Blue stays with him for a little longer. "  
  
"No. Certainly not," John replied and smiled.  
  
Outside, the sky slowly cleared and the birds began to sing.  
  
It sounded like a song of joy.


	10. Into Battle

"How are you, Sherlock?" The Woman asked him and smiled. She was standing right in front of him. Her feline eyes sparkled as they moved across his face.  
  
"I think ... better," Sherlock said. "Yes, I'm feeling better."  
It felt good to say that.  
It felt like a small victory. A small victory after many defeats.  
  
He looked around.  
The room they were in looked very similar to Baker Street. A fire crackled in the fireplace, the shadows of the flames dancing across the walls. It was pleasantly warm. There were two chairs in one corner. Sherlock and John's armchairs.  
  
He looked back at Irene Adler, who was watching him attentively. She smiled gently, took another step toward him, and put a warm hand on his cheek. "And John?" She asked softly.  
  
_John.  
_  
Sherlock swallowed and looked away.  
  
She nodded knowingly. "You haven’t told him. Still."  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"You do not have to be scared, Sherlock. He is waiting for you."  
  
He sighed. "You sound so sure about that. What if it is not like that? If ... if it were just illusions. The whole time."  
  
"Sherlock, if you keep waiting, you'll never know. Then you will eventually look back on missed opportunities and end up bitter and alone," she said softly and stroked a stray lock of hair from his forehead.  
"Now is the time. Maybe there is still a chance. But it won’t be there forever. In the end, it will have gone before you really realize it. So, do something while you still can.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed. He closed his eyes for a moment.  
If only it was that easy ...  
  
He had known for a long time that he had feelings for John.  
Before ... Before The Fall, and the two years he had been separated from John, these feelings overwhelmed him from time to time.  
And he had imagined that John too ... but he did not know it for sure. It was just a faint feeling. Past experiences had taught him to be careful. To protect himself from being disappointed or hurt once again.  
And when he had finally gathered enough courage - when he had practiced the words so many times in front of the mirror that he heard them echoing everywhere in his head, then came Moriarty.  
  
And everything was burned to ashes before his eyes.  
  
"But you two, you aren’t ash," Irene whispered in his ear and gave him a brief kiss on the forehead.  
  
After that, the warm touch disappeared from his cheek.

When he opened his eyes, Irene Adler was gone.  
He stood in the corridor of his mind palace.  
Closed doors were on the left and right.  
Above him, the ceiling was made up of countless mirrors.  
He looked up and saw his own questioning eyes a hundred times.  
  
A dog barking from somewhere at the end of the corridor made him flinch.  
Blue?  
No. No, it was Redbeard. Here in his mind palace it was Redbeard.  
Of all the ghosts that were living here, he liked Redbeard the most. But he could not go to him right now. He had something else to do.  
  
He walked slowly down the corridor and his mind wandered back to Irene Adler.  
It was as if he could still feel the warmth of her hand on his skin.  
  
The Woman ... No doubt that she knew everything. About him. About John. She was smart. He wondered where she was now. She had messaged him a few times. There had often been teasing comments about his cases. She read John's blog ( _Of course, everyone reads John's blog_ ...).  
But once she had asked: _Does he know?_  
  
He had stared at his mobile phone, in silent astonishment.  
Unable to answer.  
  
At some point another message had arrived.  
_You should tell him. I think he is waiting._  
  
She was smart ...  
She knew people.  
She knew certain things.  
  
So what if it was true?  
  
If John had been waiting? The whole time?  
How absurd this thought was ...  
The idea that they were walking past each other, sitting together at breakfast, dropping cases, watching cheap soaps, all the while coveting and waiting for each other, waiting, waiting ... endlessly waiting for one of them to find the right words.  
Opportunities ... opportunities that came and went.  
  
Did he have a real chance? The chance Irene had spoken of ... had it been there? Had it been within his reach?  
He shook his head and sighed. Pressed a hand against his forehead.  
  
He should not forget why he was here.  
And he must not forget that this was not reality.  
Irene had not really been with him. Had not really talked to him.  
This Irene was just an image he had created himself.  
Her words were his own thoughts.  
No more and no less.  
  
_So you told yourself that you should take the chance. And yet you doubt its existence_ ... a voice whispered to him from somewhere.  
  
He shook his head unwillingly. He was not here because of John.  
  
He was here to find HIM. The shadow that had crept into his memory palace. The shadow that was trying to control his thoughts. The shadow that dominated his dreams and fears.  
  
The coffin maker.  
The torturer from Serbia.  
  
A shadow. He was not more than that. A ghost.  
  
And Sherlock would drive him away once and for all.  
  
He walked slowly down the corridor.  
  
_Where are you_ , he thought grimly. _You are usually not that timid. Come out.  
Let's finish this ...  
_  
And then HE stood in front of Sherlock as if from out of nowhere.  
A massive figure. Broad and tall. Almost two meters.  
The pale face was covered by a dense, shaggy beard.  
The eyes seemed to be almost black, yet they were glowing.  
The man had a gaping bullet hole in his forehead.  
Dirty water gathered on the ground around his feet. Made a puddle.  
He was wearing camouflage. His pants were dirty and riddled with holes.  
Sherlock could smell him.  
Alcohol and tobacco.  
  
Sherlock swallowed. He felt sweat on his forehead.  
His breathing quickened slightly.  
He could hear his heart beat in his ears. Going from steady to fast.

HE grinned.  
_Did you come here so we could continue? I missed it. Our little game.  
_  
Sherlock shuddered. The words reminded him of a completely different ghost ...  
  
_Do you miss me?_  
  
And then the pictures flashed through Sherlock's head ...  
The cold cellar and the glare of the neon lamp above him. Heavy steps that approached him slowly but incessantly. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol. A hand in his hair. Pain, when his head was jerked backwards.  
"Ready for the next round?"  
  
_No. No, that is over ... That is not ..._  
  
Pain exploded in his back. Lashes rained down on him, took his breath away ...  
Sherlock gasped and closed his eyes. He staggered as his legs started to feel weak and the corridor around him began to blur.  
  
_No.  
It is not …  
It is not REAL!_  
  
He shook his head several times and took a deep breath.  
  
_You can do this, Sherlock_ , a voice suddenly said in his head.  
  
Astonished, he opened his eyes.  
That was …  
It was John's voice.  
John.  
Here.  
He … Usually he heard Mycroft’s voice here.  
But now it was John’s. And it made Sherlock’s heart flutter.  
  
_Come on, Sherlock. Defeat the fear._

John. Warm and firm and confident.  
  
Yes.  
  
Sherlock took another deep breath and looked HIM straight in the eyes.  
"I'm not afraid of you,” he said firmly. "You are just a memory. A fragment of my thoughts, just like everything else here. This is not real. _You_ are not real. And if I want to, then I can erase you. I’ll delete you how one would delete data from a hard disk. Because I created this place. And I can destroy it. I am in control here. Not you. Not YOU."  
  
The Serb stared at him silently. There was something in his eyes that seemed astonished. Blood dripped slowly from the bullet hole in his forehead. Dropped to the floor and - disappeared. As if it had never been there.  
  
_There you see it. Further proof that this being is nothing more than thoughts, memories, fantasy and fear ..._  
  
Sherlock felt encouraged. He took a step toward the other man. Then another.  
And the man in front of him ... took a step back.  
  
_That's it.  
I can do it.  
I can fight my fear._  
  
"I am not alone. I have people around me who will help me find my way back to myself. There is no room for you. You will disappear and I will fill the empty space you leave with new memories."  
He stood directly in front of the figure. Staring into the dark eyes, inhaling the stale smell of cigarette ash and alcohol.  
  
And Sherlock remembered.  
He remembered the feeling of drowning, and going mad from the burning sensation in his lungs.  
But now it no longer filled him with fear and helplessness.  
It filled him with cold, angry RAGE.

"Back off," Sherlock said softly to those dark eyes. "You're dead and I'm alive, you did not win, you lost, so back off. Now."  
  
_You are weak. You're broken_ , the figure in front of him said flatly. Even in Sherlock's ears it sounded like one last, desperate attempt to push him back.  
  
He grinned bitterly.  
"No. No, I'm not weak. I am not broken. What you did, did not weaken me. When I’m over this, I will be even stronger than before.”  
  
And with a scream, Sherlock slammed his fist right into the face in front of him.  
The figure staggered. Blurred before his eyes. Flickered.  
He struck again.  
And again.  
  
And suddenly, he hit glass. In front of him was a mere mirror image that did not have a physical form anymore. And then the picture of HIM broke into a thousand pieces. The next moment, he was standing in front of a pile of shards, breathing hard and heated.  
  
Shards. That was all that was left of the fear. That was left of the nightmare.  
  
And then someone next to him put his hand on his shoulder.  
It was John.  
  
John stood next to him, smiling at him.  
"It's over," he said.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock replied softly. "Over."  
_At least here. Here in my place of retreat._  
He looked at John and swallowed.  
  
Opportunities …  
Missed chances.  
  
"I have something to tell you, John," he said, swallowing hard. "Something ... I wanted to tell you, but I could not, I did not have ... the chance."  
  
John looked at him attentively. "What, Sherlock? What did you want to tell me?"  
  
"I ..."  
Sherlock fell silent as he felt something and frowned.  
  
Someone _– someone real? -_ shook his shoulder and his mind palace started to dissolve in front of his eyes.  
No.  
  
"John ..."  
  
"It's okay, Sherlock. It's all right. I'm waiting."  
  
"John, I ..."  
  
_I love you._  
  
  
And he woke up.

*

"Sherlock?"  
John's eyes were wide open. There was a hint of panic in them.  
  
Sherlock blinked dazedly at the bright light in the room.  
"John ..."  
  
"God, Sherlock ... I ... I was worried. You didn’t ... ", John stroke over his face relentlessly. "I couldn’t wake you up."  
  
"Hmm. I was in my mind palace," Sherlock muttered, grimacing when he noticed an unpleasant taste in his too-dry throat.  
"John. Water. Please," he croaked.  
  
"Yes. Yes of course. One second,” John said, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand, where a straw had already been put in. "Here."  
  
Sherlock observed John while he was drinking.  
John rummaged in his pocket and mumbled something to himself.  
He seemed very restless.  
_Was I really that out of it_ , Sherlock wondered, frowning.  
He remembered what had happened in his mind palace.  
The fight he had had with his own thoughts ... The talk with The Woman.  
He wondered if John would understand it all if he told him.  
He probably would ...  
No one had been able to understand Sherlock’s mind palace before. Well, no one beside Mycroft of course. Mycroft taught him the technique after all. A technique that calmed Sherlock’s restless mind and gave him a place to organize all the information he gathered without really wanting to. Other people didn’t understand, or they mocked him. Like Sebastian Wilkes.  
_Are you in your palace again, princess? What does it look like? Is it a pink castle full of unicorns? Do you walk around in a dress? Weirdo._  
John didn’t mock him.  
John never mocked him. He was John.  
But right now there was no time for telling John about the exciting happenings.  
John looked exhausted enough already.  
He shouldn’t be exhausted. Or worried.  
When Sherlock was finished, he put down the bottle and cleared his throat. "What time is it?"  
  
John looked at his watch. "Uhm, 11 o'clock."  
He smiled crookedly.  
"You slept ... almost 10 hours."  
  
"Ah. Is there time for a shower before Sahra arrives?"  
  
"Yes. Of course. Wait. I'll help you up ... "  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "I'd like to try to get up myself," he said firmly.  
It's time to finally be more myself again …  
_Control over my thoughts is not everything.  
I also need control over my body.  
I have to get stronger.  
More independent.  
So John does not have to worry about me all the time._

John looked surprised, but also pleased. "Really? Yes, um, great. Sure, of course."  
  
He stood attentively by the side of the bed and watched as Sherlock slowly sat up.  
Sherlock almost held his breath in excitement as he swung his legs from the bed and dropped his feet to the floor.  
  
He pushed himself up from the bed and felt triumphant as he was suddenly standing on his own legs. On very shaky legs ... but he was standing.  
  
"Remember that your muscles still need a lot of rehabilitation," John said from the side. But he, too, seemed very happy. There was a smile on his face. A smile Sherlock liked. It made his stomach tingle. He wanted to make John even more happy.  
If he would be able to walk just a few steps …  
That shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

Sherlock took a deep breath and carefully shifted his weight. He bit his lower lip as he felt a throbbing pain in his right footpad. But it was bearable ...

 _I can do this.  
_  
He took a cautious step forward and gasped, as everything suddenly started spinning around him. He felt how he lost his footing. How he seemed to fall forward …  
"John!" He shouted in alarm.  
  
"Already here," John said, catching him. "I'm here."  
  
Sherlock was hanging in John's arms, breathing heavily. He narrowed his eyes and groaned. He was dizzy. He realised that he didn’t even manage one step and felt both disappointed and ashamed. Why wasn’t he able to be stronger than that?  
  
John rubbed circles on his back with one hand.  
"This is completely normal. You have been lying down for a long time and your muscles are still weak. It will get better," he said quietly in Sherlock's ear.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. He inhaled John's smell. John was warm. John was ... safe. Sherlock felt safe. He could get used to being so close to John. He felt a bit better after John’s words. John always knew what to say. It was like he could sense Sherlock’s emotions. Could read Sherlock’s thoughts. Almost without noticing it, Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder. Warm. Safe. Good.

A moment passed in complete silence.  
  
Then John swallowed audibly. He asked hoarsely, "Are you ready to go to the bathroom?"  
  
Sherlock quickly swallowed down the disappointment that wanted to build up. _I want to stay like this._  "Yes …"  
  
"Okay."  
John straightened him up and put one of Sherlock’s arms over his strong shoulder. Together they slowly made their way to the bathroom.  
  
Once, their eyes met.  
  
And Sherlock felt like he was drowning in John's warm eyes ...  
  
_Now is the time. Maybe there is still a chance. But it won’t be there forever. In the end, it will have gone before you really realize it. So, do something while you still can._

_Do something Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dear readers,
> 
> thanks so much for every read, kudo, comment and bookmark!  
> I know that the uploads take a long time, thanks for your patience :)  
> I'm not native speaker, so I have to translate all my stories from German to English. And that takes some time.  
> I really try to be faster. I also intend to finish this fic until the middle of this year! (One of my resolutions for 2018)
> 
> I hope you like this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/)  
> Beta: [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/)


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